Misconceptions (To be remade)
by IzzySenpaiChan
Summary: This is an original story overall, as the P.O.V. is that of an original character, but other characters relate to Dragon Ball Z. Well...to basically explain this one, this is the mind of the assassin that an assignment to kill Bulma Briefs went wrong.
1. Prologue

This I didn't do of my own free will. A certain someone decided it'd be best if I made something of an autobiography to illustrate my life...which I have absolutely no clue why someone would want to read this. My life is nothing special, just like everybody else's. Well...there are a few oddities here and there, but who doesn't have oddities about themselves and their lives?

That certain someone I said earlier...his name is Desmond. As his little "punishment" for reading his autobiography, he said I had to write my own. But by no means I am going to enjoy this. This is probably going to be the most mundane thing I have ever written. You know, since I technically already know the beginning, middle, and not quite the end of my life, there's no brainstorming or thinking things out for me.

With this story, I have to explain where I come into the mix with the Briefs family just like he did.

Well.

Desmond never said I couldn't copy his style.

.

To start at the beginning, an introduction is probably in order. My name is Augustine Diez. Currently I work for Kierkov industries as an assassin - well, sort of. I'm 6'2" - unfortunately - and I'm originally from Britain. I was born on August 24th with all limbs intact.

Description is something I'm required to say, so I guess just white hair - I'm not THAT old, I've always had that colour - hazel eyes, and a robotic arm for a leftie. I'm not muscular like those other beef cakes that know kung fu, but I'm not obese.

Now, that aside, we start at the REAL beginning.

The beginning I'm speaking of isn't where I was born from a caesarean section.

I was around eight years old. My brother, George, age 12, was with me. Being the typical eight-year-old, I was begging for attention from him. At the time, both of our parents were out getting groceries and whatever we needed, so we were with our babysitter, Lucille.

We were new to Japan at the time, but we had known Lucille for years. Lucille, with her red hair always up in a curly ponytail, had a light smile on her face as we argued over who's turn it was to play the next checker piece.

"Boys, let's calm down, okay? Your mum and dad wouldn't want either of you arguing," she said, her British accent incredibly light.

"But I was next!" George insisted.

"No!" I exclaimed. "I was next!"

"Oh, George, won't you let your brother go first?" Lucille gave a kind look to him, but that was all she needed for him to succumb. "And you shouldn't be playing checkers anyway. You know you should be packing."

"Packing for what?" I asked.

"Oh, nothing, August." She smiled. "George, hop to it."

He mumbled something, but Lucille just patted his head. "Your parents should be home any minute." George left to the room we shared, leaving me with Lucille.

"Will you play checkers with me?" I asked.

"No, I'm sorry, August. I have to make sure your brother can fold properly."

"I can!" George called. Lucille smiled, paying no mind. "I'll be right back, okay?"

I nodded. She nodded back, ruffling my short white hair. As she left, I heard the familiar jangle of keys and soft talking. I got up instantly, standing in front of the door.

The door opened, showing a man with a dark navy blazer and slacks and light brown hair with hazel eyes. Next to him stood a woman with platinum blonde hair twisted into a curly side ponytail over her yellow sun dress, her diamond blue eyes shining with expectation. "August!" She beamed, hugging me.

I smiled and hugged her back, hearing a thunder of footsteps and a crash behind me.

"They're home?!" I heard George say.

"George, are you alright?" I heard the man say.

"Yes, I'm fine." I heard George come forward. I pulled back from the woman.

"Mum, where is George going?" I asked, seeing a flash of surprise cross her face.

She glanced to George.

"I didn't say anything! It was Lucille!" He pointed at the babysitter who barely had time to walk into the room. The man, my father, sighed.

"Lucille..."

"I'm sorry, I just accidentally told George to pack with August around-"

"It's fine, Lucille," my mother said gently. She looked at me. "George is heading to a boarding school, that's all. I just figured it'd be hard for him to start school here when none of the schools for his grade have side classes for students to learn Japanese just yet. It's just for this year for him to learn back in England, alright?"

I nodded slowly. "Okay..."

"Cynthia, I think we should help George pack," my father said. She nodded.

"Right. Georgie, how far are you into packing?"

"I'm almost done," he replied. "Lucille was trying to get me to organize them by colour, though."

"It would help if you did."

"Why?"

"Because it keeps them organized," she replied, brushing her blonde hair over her shoulder. Still I don't know why my hair is such a bleach white compared to my parents. "Come on, I'll help you." George followed her to our room.

"How come I have to go to school here?" I asked.

"Because they have classes for you to learn Japanese," my father responded. "It'll be easy."

"But I don't want George to leave-"

"Augustine, don't be like that." He bent down to my height. "It'll be fine. You'll be able to see him over the summer and over calls."

"But I don't want to meet new kids-"

"Nonsense. You'll come to like it, Augustine. I went to school here for a year and people were very polite and sensible."

"But what if they don't like me?" I asked.

"Oh, they'll like you, August. You're a very talented child." He smiled, patting my head and standing. "Now, why don't you clean up your checkers?"

...

One year later, George attended the English school instead of the Japanese school. Now at the age of nine, I was getting into the slightly higher grade levels with some sense of Japanese. As my father promised, I did get to go see George over the summer and over calls.

My parents remained with me in Japan while Lucille remained George's guardian in England. While keeping after me, my mother had to quit her job to be a stay-at-home mother.

However, all that came to a halt in January.

My parents had come home in a new car, a logo recognizable to everyone I knew. It was the logo of Capsule Corporation on the side of the car, the number "38" imprinted on the side of the car. It was funny because that was how old both of my parents were at the time.

My mother had been wanting a new car for some time. Occasionally the car we had before overheated and left Father stuck at work. So, as a present for Mother, he had gotten her the car the day before her birthday.

But things started three months after.

The car had been 100% safety guaranteed by Capsule Corporation for their new model. In April, I was home alone - for only five minutes according to my mother - as both of my parents left to go get something for Lucille's upcoming birthday in two weeks.

They had been gone for far too long.

As I waited at the kitchen table, homework finished and my pencil on top of the papers, I waited for the familiar sound of keys being pushed into the lock for over half an hour. Usually my parents helped to check over my homework, and so they promised to come back soon. But half an hour was too long for a five minute drive, a five minute pick up, and a five minute return.

I kept telling myself that they probably ran into the traffic. This was a city after all. Maybe they had gotten a wrong turn, couldn't figure out what to get Lucille. Maybe they decided to do a bit of extra shopping, get snacks like gummies or cookies for a small treat. Though something like paranoia poked my brain, causing me to rethink all of the possibilities just to push the paranoia away. But then it'd just come back and the cycle started again.

I swung my legs back and forth, pushing my glasses up. I looked at my homework, thinking about a few of my friends from school. A lot of them were really nice - everyone at school was. Even though some people thought I was a little weird, I didn't mind. A lot of kids have other kids who think they're weird.

The paranoia came back. I pushed it off by thinking of the 100% safety guarantee. They would be fine. Even if they had happened to get close to crashing, the car would stop or swerve itself out of the way.

But then again, it came out three months ago. Only three months. There could be bugs.

I jumped when I heard the house phone suddenly go off. I slid out of the chair, heading to the phone to see the caller ID. It was Lucille.

"Hi, Lucille," I said.

"Hi, August, um..." She sounded almost frantic. "Do you know if your parents are okay by any chance?"

"Er...they went shopping," I replied, hiding the fact that it was about a present for her. "They haven't been back for a while."

"Oh, Lord, please help them..." I heard her murmur. "Augustine, I was just on the phone with your father. I..." Her voice faltered.

"What?" I was concerned now. Maybe something did happen.

"I...I don't think they're coming home, A-August," she stammered.

"What do you mean?" My heart was pounding. "Tell me how you would tell an adult, how you would tell Mum. What happened?"

She went silent.

"Lucille!" I was panicking now. Thoughts raced through my head. Why wouldn't they come home? They would be fine. All they were doing was buying a present-"

"August, when I was talking to your father, I heard something like...like a collision. A very hard collision. But then the phone cut off..."

"Then we have to get to the hospital! We have to call somebody!" I said, tears flooding my eyes.

"August, I'm in England. I can't take you anywhere-"

"Then I'll go myself!" I hung up, tears falling down my cheeks. I opened the door and closed it behind me, sprinting outside.

I was a stubborn child. I usually got ahead of myself and made rash decisions. I tended to not think about the consequences or the possibilities once I set out to do something. And that caused me to run outside, down the street, not even knowing where the hospital or my parents were. Several people gave me concerned glances as I sprinted down the sidewalk. One even stopped me, attempting to calm me, but I just bit - yes, bit - his arm and ran off as he cringed in pain.

My heart was pounding in my chest. Lucille didn't know anything - she might've just heard some other unfortunate car crash. Both of my parents were fantastic drivers. Even if my father had a little bit - emphasis on a little bit - to drink occasionally, he'd never go out into the car and drive somewhere.

Of course, at my age, I wasn't aware that he had consumed anything of the sort. Lucille had told me after.

My legs were already starting to ache. My breaths were coming more and more shorter, the burn in my lungs signaling their need for oxygen. But it all went numb after thinking what condition my parents could be in. The only thing on my mind was my parents.

Then came the ambulance and crowd. The ambulance was parked to the side, though the back doors weren't open. I looked around, my line of vision obscured by many people and their speaking of Japanese and English was making it hard to hear any officials.  
I pushed through the crowd, hearing a few people say something to me. I paid no mind, tears staining my cheeks. I had stopped crying a while back.

The wreckage, even if it was mostly obscured, looked horrible.

The only part I could see was a mutilated door and the look of pressured metal.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up, seeing it was a paramedic. He spoke Japanese, but seeing my confused expression, he switched to English.

"This isn't a scene you should be at, little boy," he said gently. "Where are your parents?"

"Those ARE my parents!" I answered, my voice shaky through the tears that returned. I pointed at the crowd, more specifically at the wreckage that lay beyond them. The paramedic's eyes widened with surprise.

"Don't worry. We're getting them out. They'll be okay." When I was younger, I didn't notice the unsure tone in his voice. Looking back, there was definitely a falter.

And everything went from there. I never got to see anything else of the wreckage - no one would let me get closer - and I didn't get to see how bad my parents looked.

I had gone back home - with the paramedic as my escort - a little spot of hope that they'd be okay along with me. I didn't want to go to the hospital with them - they'd be in the ICU for sure. When my grandfather had a heart attack, my mother made sure I didn't go into the ICU with her and father. It wasn't for kids, or so she said.

So I did the only thing I could only do. I went home, a heavy heart on my shoulders. But as soon as I walked into the home, the house phone went off. It made me jump.

Being home alone, no one could really answer it. It might be the hospital. But then again, it could be Lucille. I went over to the phone, reaching up to grab the phone and answer it. "Yes?"

"August!" It was Lucille. I could hear George in the background, asking to have the phone. Lucille didn't give it to him - she kept talking. "Oh my, I'm so sorry for scaring you. Are your parents alright? Do you know?"

"...Um...they're at the hospital-" I heard a click. Someone else was on the phone, trying to call me. "Yes?"

"This is the hospital. Are any adults on the premises?" It was a gruff voice that I didn't like. He sounded mean but also too serious. Additionally, I had no clue what 'premises' meant at the time.

"What?"

"Are there any adults in the house?"

"No."

"You're home alone?"

"Yes."

"This is the child of Cynthia and Charles Diez, correct?"

"Um...yes."

From there, I had to switch between each call, answering questions until my head started to hurt.

But only four hours after the wreck, my parents had died. They hadn't gained consciousness whatsoever. Lucille and George had flown in from England that day. They came extremely late at night, but I couldn't sleep alone, so I was up.

George was an absolute mess in the aftermath. He was a sobbing mess of tears and memories. Lucille was doing her best to comfort us, but she was crying too.

She decided we wouldn't go to the funeral when I came up. She thought it would be too emotional for all of us. So instead of going, she started the work of trying to get herself registered as our guardian.

But then came along Kono-Chan.

Her real name is Konomonokera, but most people have trouble pronouncing it, so she allows people to call her Kono-Chan. She's a very sweet person, but she's extremely hesitant and timid. She has a soft voice, but she can be very forceful when need be. In fact, she's one of the strongest-willed people I know.

She's really into cosplay, for starters. She used to have a whole career of it. Her little 'hobby' got finished when she wanted to find someone to settle down with instead of dressing up. So, why is she important? Well, that's easy to answer.

She's now my adoptive mother.

Brown hair always in messy braid, she had chocolate brown eyes and gentle features. Model features. The only thing that marred her appearance was a scar on the corner of her lips from when she had gotten a fish hook stuck as a child. It had torn away part of the flesh when she had it pulled out, and it healed rather slowly.

The scar did make for some impressive cosplay, though.

She became my adoptive mother only a month after the wreckage. After the crash, I had nightmares about it. Imagining how bad the crash was or what they looked like after. She helped a lot with the nightmares, usually watching a movie with me until I fell asleep on the couch. She never seemed to grow annoyed with me.

Her personality flaw is not knowing how to act. She doesn't know how to handle sadness she can't treat instantly like a movie after a nightmare. If someone is mad at her, she panics and blows up in a ball of tears. When someone is sad, however, and she can't really help, then she keeps her distance.

After Kono came around, Lucille and George both agreed he needed to finish school above all. Of course, he wouldn't attend for a while to recover, but his education did matter. So, Kono and I were now living in the same place.

Though the house did feel more empty afterwards.

...

Kono had left for a few months, to start off.

Her mother or something had needed some medical attention over in some other city. She trusted me home alone, seeing as I was seventeen. The only thing I didn't like about this was that she was leaving me without any support.

Let's back up a bit. Around middle school, people started getting much more judgmental. But before middle school, I met a kid in fourth grade who had black hair and the coolest blue eyes.

His name was Desmond. We were pretty good friends, to say the least. He was a loud kid, but we were about the same then. Middle school, as I said, was when things went downhill.

For some reason, white hair and a British accent is weird compared to blue or purple hair. And, seeing as neither me nor Kono-Chan had a great sense of fashion - despite strict uniforms - for the other kids to like, I got picked on a bit for that. It didn't bother me at the time, but at some point it shifted to where I was just the weird kid outright. I'm not sure what happened, but just one day I came to school and found Desmond at our table with our friends. Everyone was laughing and joking around - in fact, one girl was in tears from laughing. But once I sat down, there was still talking, but it got a lot more quiet. Desmond was the same, though, attempting to pick up the conversation and crack some jokes here and there. Many glances came my way and soon two people were writing on a piece of paper - one looked confused as if he didn't get why they were ostracizing me. I guess the girl he was writing with told him, because his expression instantly shifted to one of shock and the saucer-sized eyes that you get when you hear something terrible.

Once the bell rang for us to go, they were the first two to get up and go. As soon as they left, they were laughing and smiling again. I had asked Desmond what was up, but he didn't know a thing.

For a long time I didn't mind it. I slowly grew more introverted and to myself. I hated hearing rumors about me. I'm usually not sensitive towards anything, but my image being torn down and replaced with a new one was something that hits me hard - and it still does. As I said, I grew introverted - it wasn't to stay away from people, really. I just didn't want to be told what was wrong with me all of a sudden. I mean, I had had thoughts about it. Maybe how I talked? Maybe my clothes? Backpack? Binder? My hobbies? Eyes? My hair? My friends? How I stood? How I answered questions?

Then came along high school.

High school was the bane of my existence - but then again, it's nobody's favourite school year. A lot of teens grow depressed from the drama and bullying, and that's why so many people are afraid of it. I'll admit, I was a part of that majority. But I had a common reason. People.

Now, I'm not getting all into my high school years. Just one small detail you should probably know.

...

That morning, I was running extremely late to school. I always hated missing school, despite the ruining of my reputation. The problem was, I didn't have Kono-Chan there to help me wake up. She had left for a family issue, as I said, leaving me alone for about three months.

I had already woken up 15 minutes late. Now here I was, attempting to fix the collar to the black uniform and button it at the same time. Toothbrush still in my mouth, I glanced at my hair through my bangs. It looked a complete mess. I rolled my eyes and sighed, though it came out as a growl because of the toothbrush in my mouth.

Because my hair was long, it tended to fluff up and stay flat in all the wrong places. Random strands of hair jutting out and ending up not being presentable in the least. Even if my hair was obviously against the strict dress code, Kono-Chan opted that since I was from England, I had the right to keep my hair the way I wanted. I didn't much care what happened - after all, my hair was only long because I hate eye contact. If I had to cut it, I could still make it work. But I didn't want anyone but me to cut it. I didn't trust people when it came to them shaping my image. If someone wants to shape my image, then that someone has to be me.

I finished brushing my teeth, moving on to brush my hair and finish buttoning my shirt. I left to the kitchen, taking one drink of the orange juice before gagging. I spit it out into the sink, ending up pouring the rest out. Orange juice after toothpaste was a horrid combination.

I glanced at my watch as I reached for a piece of toast, grabbing my bag and jogging to the train stop. I was a whole thirty minutes late. There was only about fifteen minutes left to arrive before the first bell went off.

But then came along the thoughts. Now, at home, I'm a normal guy. But once I'm on the campus or almost there, I kind of shut down, I guess you could say. I get quieter and then I pay more attention to what people say. At home, I'd zone out completely. But at school, things were different.

Every morning I contemplated why I was different. The same ideas floated through my head - hair? Clothes? Backpack? I never really got an answer, despite the back up I gave myself.

But I had to admit: I was getting pretty sick and tired of being ignored. It was growing more frustrating every week without an answer. And now to add in the factor of being alone at home and left with only my thoughts, I'd be more aware of my flaws, like smiling weird or my eyes being unnatural to some people.

No, I wasn't okay with myself, but I had no reason to change myself. I didn't feel any need to harm myself - I saw no logic in it. But still it always came back to square one-  
"Are you getting on?" The man of the train obviously seemed annoyed. I nodded, stepping on and finding my usual seat to sit at. How long was I standing there? Maybe I was holding everyone up. Is he still mad? Maybe I should apologize.

The train lurched forward. I leaned my head against the window. I glanced at the world outside. The occasional kid passed by in a flash. I wonder if he felt inferior at some point? What if he did now?

My eyes focused on my reflection. The same tang of sadness and dissatisfaction of seeing my reflection I get in public came around. The same questions. I looked over every part of my face, contemplating if those were my flaws and ending up finding some evidence that it was. With no music to distract my thoughts, I arrived at the station near the campus with seven minutes before the first bell.

I stepped off the train, walking in the direction of the school only two minutes away. Still, I had some thoughts on my mind. Why couldn't they just accept everyone? I didn't even really do anything. I didn't attempt to grab attention. I didn't talk to many people. What could possibly be wrong?

I stepped through the doors of the campus and to the cafeteria, frustrated and annoyed. I was too sensitive. I already felt a lump in my throat and a burning to cry.

"Seriously?!" Hiroko boomed. It was the first thing I heard when walking into the cafeteria. "You need to stop hanging out with him! Haven't you heard what everyone's saying about you now? You don't have to join Augustine!" Me? When did I get into this? Who is he talking to? And what did he mean by "join"?  
"You gotta stay normal, okay? Otherwise we can't talk to you! With him around, you're just as much of a freak as he i-!" When I heard the word 'freak', I instantly felt a surge of rage. All the pent up anger of that morning - the anger at myself, society, and him - just spilled out. I don't even remember walking up to him.

But now here he was, his head on the table from me throwing a punch at his face. Even then, I didn't feel guilty. I knew I shouldn't have done it, but I just released all the anger I had on him. I banged his head on the table, but soon it got so bad to where I had him at the stairs to the side, throwing his body back in forth onto the marble stairs. Long before, people were excited about the fight. But at the sight of blood, everyone lost their minds. A crack.

There went his head.

I should probably stop...

But what about everything everyone said? Everything ever rumored?

What about my hate towards myself?

Where would I get another chance to feel this surge of all the anger being released?

The white stairs were stained with red. I felt the electric touch of somebody trying to pull me off of him. My blood was already boiling. I can't just stop. It was as if I was punching everyone who ever hated me.

As if on reflex, I whipped around, punching the teacher - a female - square in the jaw. If it wasn't quiet enough before, it definitely was now. The teacher, my teacher, doubled back, holding her jaw.

The adrenaline rush was increasing by every blow I made to someone. The blow to the teacher boosted it. Being a rebel felt amazing. It felt blissful to have a reason for everyone to hate me, to be scared of me. Now I didn't have to guess for what they stared at me and whispered behind their hands about. I had a reason.

A reason. One that was rational, one that was tangible in its own way. A reason that could diminish the thoughts about my appearance, the thought of how I spoke. I had a god damn reason. A reason to feel the adrenaline at this moment as all my peers stared at me in horror. None of them made a move to stop me. It felt like minutes going by, but I knew it was merely seconds.

And then the anger returned.

All the bastards who made me think I was worthless. That I was weird, odd, unique in a terrible way. Before I knew it, I was still swinging at the unconscious Hiroko. I didn't need a reason to keep punching. He was my anger, my dislike towards myself in a physical form.

And then came a stronger force. Arms hooked around mine, lifting me up. It was the principal. A nurse rushed forward, taking away Hiroko as I screamed and kicked at the principal.

I could already feel the guilt mixing with the anger. I forced myself to push it away. But now I had no reason to fight. My physical anger was gone. I fell limp. The principal kept a tight grip on me, pulling me away from all the other kids freaking out.

I could already hear Maria, Hiroko's girlfriend, crying from down the hall. The sound of the assistant principal attempting to calm everyone and the sound of footsteps down the hall to try and follow me and find out what was happening to the monster walking amongst humans.

.

An hour passed. A long hour. The suspended hour.

Konomonokera still didn't know. She turned her email off long before, and her calling information was only reserved for me. She refused to give it to the school - something about her not wanting to hear about things to give her more stress while she was away.

I had my cellphone next to me on the couch. The black screen reflected back at me.

I never felt this terrible. I felt so tired, but I also felt the need to do something. But more than that, I felt such alienation from myself. I didn't even know who I was anymore.

Was I the happy kid at age five?

Was I the sad orphan?

Was I the blood-stained monster with a joker smile?

Was I a normal teenager?

I never knew how to know if someone was depressed. I was sure I wasn't depressed. I didn't want to feel like a martyr.

There was no one around to be a martyr to other than Desmond. What was I talking about?

As I laid there on the couch, I felt guilty. Guilty couldn't even describe it. The image of blood on the stairs and his unconscious body on top of them flashed behind my eyes. The guilt of refusing to answer the principal's questions. I touched the bandage on my cheek that covered the cut Hiroko gave me.

I was a terrible person. The sound of a cracked skull resonated within my own. God. I killed him.

I cracked his god damn skull. And I still kept hitting him. He was such a bloody mess and I kept going.

I felt warmth and liquid touch my fingertip.

I moved my hand away from the bandage, seeing clear liquid on my finger. Tears.

The sight of tears hit me hard. Why should I be crying? Wasn't I the terrible person who just killed a teenager my own age?

My chest tightened. I covered my eyes, willing myself not to cry. I didn't have a right to cry.

I felt so alone. It was cold on the warm afternoon. Right now people would be enjoying lunch at school. And I was here in my own house, trying not to cry because I didn't deserve the right to cry over my own murder.

I rolled over, facing the TV screen. I reached down, grabbing the remote and turning it on. I sat up, hugging a pillow and waited for the volume and the resolution to calibrate.

The news.

"17-year-old Augustine Diez has put Hiroko Norok-"

I bolted for the remote, turning it off. I quickly wiped away the tears coming. I couldn't stop thinking about how I killed him. I was sure I did. It wouldn't get off my mind.

I hugged a pillow to my chest, burying my face into it. How could I be so messed up? I'm too sick and too twisted.

I saw my phone vibrate. I ignored it. I knew it was Kono-Chan.

The words of the news echoed in my head. Put Hiroko in what? A grave?

"I killed him...I know it. I can't believe this..." I mumbled into the pillow. I didn't try and stop the tears. My breath was uncomfortably hot against the pillow, added on the hot tears spilling onto it.

"Augustine?"

I jumped, pulled out of my state to focus on the black-haired teen sitting on the couch next to me as I hugged a pillow against me.

"Desmond?! What are you doing here?"

"Eh." He shrugged. "I decided to call home. Mom was concerned, but I just faked a stomach ache. I was worried about you."

I swallowed. "I'm a murderer, Dez. It doesn't matter what happens to me. You shouldn't care."

"I shouldn't, but I am." He leaned back, crossing his arms. "I don't find anything wrong with you. I can't even picture you as a killer. I'm sticking by you."

I hesitated. "Why would you stick with a killer?"

"Because you're not a killer. I'm not with a killer, I'm with a normal teenager who's paranoid as fuck. You're not a killer, not even close to being one. The worst that's going to happen is that you go back to school."

My heart sank. I never even thought of the possibility of having to go back to school. I felt a chill ride up my spine. I had just turned to ice.

"You're suspended for six months, so you still have summer to think things over. You'll be okay."

I turned the pillow, pressing my cheek on the cooler side of the pillow. The velveteen surface of ice felt much better than the Sahara on the other side.

I mulled over the thought of his words. Would I be okay? Of course not. Being a murderer would only grant me the inability of ever getting a good job or career while Desmond moves on to be the doctor he's working on being.

"What kind of doctor do you want to be?" I mumbled against the pillow. He observed me for a few moments before he opened his mouth to answer.

"I guess I'd want to be a cardiologist," he replied. "Why?"

I shrugged. Really I just wanted to get off the subject of him being with me. It sounded weird. Especially since we were both guys. You only say those things when you're being cliché and cheesy.

Like in books.

He glanced at his watch. "I should probably get going." A part of me felt disappointed, but the other part felt relieved. From there I walked him out and wished him farewell.

However, only a few days later, he returned with worse news.

I had left the door unlocked. I only glanced my eyes to the right from my video game as Micheal went flying out of the car with a grunt and red sliding onto the road. It sent a shiver down my spine.

"Hey." His tone sounded low. He looked nervous. Anxious. Uptight.

I gave a nod. I hadn't been feeling as bad as I had the first day. Though being alone most of the day had left me with much time to think. So many arguments and wars with myself left me numb from the world. Whatever he had to say I wouldn't really be listening to.

He sat down next to me. I paused the game, tossing the controller to the side. I hadn't been into the game like normal. I felt like a hollow shell only full of empty guilt.

"Um...so..."

"Something happened." I could just tell. My heart was thumping with fear of what he might say. Too many things could leave his mouth that could upset me.

He took a breath. "Hiroko died."

My heart fell to my shoes. My lungs felt like a car in a trash compactor. I could already feel my throat tightening and my eyes burn. Oh God, I just killed a human being. Someone who didn't even deserve it. Then realizations started to hit me:

No woman would ever want to marry me.

No one would want to hire me.

Everyone would know me as a murderer.

Oh God. What would my parents think? Even if they were dead, they never would've wanted me to lose my cool so bad that I made someone's heart stop beating. I was always such a patient kid.

I lost my cool over something stupid. Everyone gets picked on for flaws. What makes me different then any other kid that gets messed with? Even if I thought this, I was just sitting here staring at the floor acting as if I was special.

Even if I thought this, I still had tears pouring from my eyes.

Even if I thought this, my hands were shaking as I moved to wipe them away. It felt as if I were smearing the hot, sticky blood onto my face and painting myself even more of a murderer.

Crying hurt. I had already done it so much. I thought I had cried out my soul, my identity. But still tears cascaded down my eyes. Desmond was silent next to me, an arm over my shoulder in his own version of a hug.

"Augustine, chill. Kono-Chan wouldn't let you go into jail or juvenile jail. You'll be alright."

"But it's my fault!" I sobbed, pressing my palm into my left eye, feeling a jolt of pain. Is that how Hiroko felt when my fist landed against his eye? How much pain did I need to make myself feel to compensate for how much he experienced?

"But you can't beat yourself up over it. You'll be okay-"

"No I won't! You don't get it, Desmond!" I shoved him away from me, giving him a hard look in his eyes. "You don't, okay? You didn't kill someone only a week ago." I wasn't yelling - I was too tired of myself to yell. I was too tired of crying and hating myself. I was tired of everything. I felt like I had just ran a mile.

I was tired of all the rumors. I was tired of the guilt. I was tired of being reminded. I was tired of being on the spot. I was tired of always wondering what everything was thinking about. I was tired of Desmond trying to tell me lies. I was tired of telling myself lies. And I was exhausted with waking up everyday.

We sat in silence, minutes going by. I already felt a lump forming, flames licking my throat raw. I sucked in a breath, hoping it would help, but all I got was a shaky sound to replace it.

"Do you just want me to leave?" Desmond asked.

"I don't care what you do." My voice was low. I stared at the floor. I already knew my bangs covered my eyes from Desmond.

"I'm just trying to help. If you're going to push me away, just tell me to GTFO." He cracked a small smile at his own humor.

"I don't care what you do," I repeated. I honestly didn't. I was just done. I wouldn't care if he punched me in the face at this moment. I'd be glad if he did. Maybe then I could find some clarity.

"Augustine. You're being weird."

Great. Join everyone else on the judgement train.

"Seriously. You sound...depressed or something."

"I'm not." It sounded hollow to me. Was I? How do I know if I am? Would I just be assuming? That wouldn't help me look like a better person. I'd just look like an attention-seeker.

No matter what I did and what way I looked at it, I just saw negative. It was suffocating. Desmond could be a positive, but I only saw negative at the moment. He was making me question myself and get frustrated. I rubbed my temple, hating the silence but also loving it. Hating it because it gave Desmond to think about his own judgments. I loved it because I didn't have to talk to him.

I wanted to be left alone, but I didn't want to be lonely. I was worried that I would hate myself more if I was alone.

"I'm sorry." I spoke barely above a whisper.

"For what? There's nothing for you to apologize for."

"You should probably just go." That I didn't mean to say. I just blurted it out. I wanted to slap a hand over my mouth for saying it.

"If that's what you want, sure. You probably need some time to think, anyway." He stood up and picked up a backpack I didn't see him put down when he walked in. "I'll check on you tomorrow morning, okay?"

I nodded. "Okay."

He returned the nod and headed to the door. I heard it click shut in the other room.

.

As I look back now, I only remember feeling numb and the number 40. But I do remember extreme hate and guilt at the same time.

It was 6:47 in the morning. I hadn't slept. I couldn't. I kept tossing and turning, thinking about 38. At the time, I had no clue what that number meant, but I remembered later that that was the age that both my parents had died at. The number on their car. I don't know why that number was carved into my mind at that particular moment. But it was.

I remember walking out into the kitchen, overly frustrated with myself. I had damp tear tracks on my cheeks that heated my skin. I felt an edge of fear. I leaned on the marble counter, wishing Kono-Chan would come back already and tell me what all this meant. I felt numb, weird, but above all else, hate. Hate towards everyone at school, Desmond, Konomonokera, and mostly myself.

I felt like a child. I was blowing things out of proportion. If someone were here, they'd think I was an emo or something. But I couldn't help it. I couldn't escape this hate. It was like it was controlling my life.

And then I thought of a solution. As if the hate had possessed me that morning at 6:53 AM, I counted...

1,2,3...

25, 26, 27...

38...39...40.

Red turned to fuzzy and fuzzy turned to black. But the thing that screamed at me was that I finally didn't hate what I did to myself.

.

And then I woke up. It startled me. First it was a blinding white, stinging my eyes. Then it was cold. Insanely cold. My fingertips felt numb. Then the taste of something sour but sweet. And then the scent of medicine.

I wasn't supposed to be awake. Dear God, please don't let me be awake. I don't even remember what I did to get here, but I don't want to be awake.

There were plush pillows behind my back. I closed my eyes against the blinding white light and opened them again, this time greeted with a white room. This wasn't my bedroom.

I still felt like I shouldn't be awake. I couldn't remember why I was here. My mind was completely blank.

A doctor passed by on my left. I heard crying outside a wooden door.

A hospital?

Why was I in a hospital of all places?

I heard a woman's voice outside the door. She was speaking Japanese. A male voice responded to her.

I wanted answers, but I felt exhausted and numb. I made up my mind to go to sleep. And then the door swung open.

It was Kono-Chan.

"Augustine, I'm so sorry, I should've stayed, I didn't know-"

"Why am I in the hospital?" I usually never cut her off, but now I was getting concerned. My voice sounded slurred. I guessed it was the morphine.

Her eyes showed tears. "You..." Her voice broke. Tears cascaded down her face. "Augustine, I'm sorry. Honest. I should've never left."

"I don't understand."

"It'll come to you, August. Just rest." As if I were a five-year-old instead of seventeen, she kissed me on the forehead. I did as she said, drifting to sleep as she left the room.

.

Later, I woke up. That was when I had remembered everything. The guilt had never hit me so hard before.

What reminded me was Desmond. He was in my room. Tears were falling down his cheeks. He looked pissed off when I woke up.

"Desmond?" My voice was quiet.

He lifted his head up from the table next to the hospital room. There was a small bag of small cakes with "KC" written on a card next to him. Next to that was a balloon tied to a teddy bear. I couldn't read it from there, but I could guess from the curly writing and the faint "L" it was from Lucille.

Desmond wiped his tears, clearing his throat. When he looked at me, he looked away right after. He couldn't make eye contact with me. The only thing he was looking at was my left arm.

I hadn't actually looked at myself and why I might be in the hospital. But when I looked down to my left arm, I saw it was covered in a multitude of bandages and gauze. Was it broken? No, I've moved it. It would be placed in a sling or cast by now.

"Why did you do it?"

His voice broke the silence like a sharp knife through tissue.

"Do what?"

"You know what I'm talking about." He sounded hurt.

"No, I don't. Kono-Chan was saying something like that too. Is it something about my arm?"

"Yes, idiot!" His hand slammed on the desk as he stood. "You're in this place because you tried to kill yourself!"

Kill myself? Suicide?

When did I ever feel that way?

He could see the confusion on my face. "Do you not remember?" He was glaring at me. "How do you not fucking remember?!"

"I don't know! I don't remember ever doing anything like that."

"Do I need to spell it out for you? This morning I came to check on you and you-" He choked. He took a breath. A few moments later, he started again. Much quieter. "I had come to check on you and you weren't in your bed or in the living room. So I looked around and you...were leaning next to the counter, your arm cut open..." Another breath. "There was a bloody knife next to you. It looked like it had fallen out of your hand. Your arm was completely red..." He looked as if he were reliving the memory. "There was even blood on the floor..."

All of it came back in a slap to the face. The memory seemed so foreign, but I remember it all. Thinking a suicide note was too cliché. Thinking how no one would miss me. Thinking how it would be so much easier for everyone if I were gone. Thinking how wonderful it would be that I wouldn't have to think about how terrible I was.

Taking the knife and cutting through my flesh 40 times. 38 times for my parents. One time for Desmond and Konomonokera and how sorry I was that they had to put up with me. One for Hiroko to compensate for the pain he felt.

I looked at my gauze-covered arm. I felt glad that I was alive. But also a little disappointed - then I felt completely guilty for thinking that. What was I thinking?

Oh God.

The scars would be there.

"Why did you do it?"

I was silent for a long time, trying to calm down. God, how much I regretted it. "I'm sorry, Desmond. I'm sorry."

"I really hope you are! I was the one who had to call the hospital on your suicidal ass! I had to explain what I saw five fucking times! Do you know how terrible I felt?! Augustine Dylan Diez, you gave me a fucking HEART ATTACK."

"I'm sorry!" The tears spilled out. "I'm sorry, okay?! I regret it! I regret it all! All I know is that I hated all the rumors, I hated myself, and I hated how I killed Hiroko. I felt terrible. I couldn't stand living like that. It was unbearable. It was like I was stuck home alone and you were the only one there. But even then I felt as if you hated me...I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything."

He was silent this time. His expression softened. "Fine." He ran a hand through his black hair. His icy blue eyes penetrated me as if he wasn't sure if I actually regretted my suicide attempt. "Are you happy you woke up?"

I nodded. "Yes...before, I was startled...but I'm outrageously happy that I'm alive. I feel better." I paused. "I don't hate myself anymore, before you ask. I don't know why...but all the guilt is gone."

"Kono-Chan said you're being registered to another school. And she's going to talk to the school about your record."

I nodded silently. "I guess I have an apologize to a lot of people..."

"Yeah. George and Lucille are here too. You might want to start with them. Lucille was freaking out. She was a bawling mess. George almost punched a doctor for not letting him in your room. I'm pretty sure you should start with them."

And I did. They both hugged me like two bears. Millions of questions were repeated to me over the day. I got stitches the next day. A week after, I was allowed to take the bandages off.

The scars were horrific.

All of them were horizontal. There wasn't one going down the middle, on the main vein. No wonder I was alive. Either way, I felt dreadful. I wanted to just cut my arm off so I wouldn't have to look at those terrible scars.

What's funny is that seven years later my scars were removed.

...

Age 24. Drinking.

As blurry as the memory is, those two elements are what stuck out in my head the most. I had been drinking on the night of June 11th. I very rarely drink, but at the time, I had just met my boss. I had joined two years before, but I hadn't seen him before. And then he had insisted we go out to get a drink.

Afterwards, I don't remember a thing. But from the testimony from another man, I had gotten myself into a pretty bad wreck whilst drunk driving.

Everything after the wreck I remember clearly.

I had woken up with a piercing pain in my...well, everything. I had been lying on my back, and the night sky was above me. The surface I was laying on was flat until I tilted.

And then I was in an ambulance.

That was when I got confused.

I tried to speak, but instant pain jolted through my jaw. I had a major headache. My chest felt heavy and both my legs were throbbing. From the pain in my right arm, I guessed it was broken. The only part of me I didn't feel was my left arm.

Thinking it wasn't injured, I didn't concern myself with it. I attempted to turn my head, but the extreme pain in my neck made it impossible. What the hell happened?

I heard the clicking of heels from far away. Then I heard the heels hit metal and the ambulance shift. I heard someone sit down next to me.

"Augustine, I know you're awake."

British.

Woman.

Sounds rather bossy.

Yep. Selene. No one better to have than your wife by your side.

I could only open my eyes again to confirm her statement, seeing as my jaw was broken.

"Are you okay?" I managed a sigh. Of course I wasn't okay. But I couldn't tell her that, nor shake my head. "Well, of course you're not okay. You look terrible. You know you're not supposed to drive drunk."

I rolled my eyes. The headache made me not want to deal with Selene at the moment. Of course, I didn't mind that she was here. I just preferred that she didn't lecture me about what I know I did wrong.

She went silent. Then I heard her gasp. "Augustine your a-"

She stopped. I heard someone murmur something to her. "But he has to know-"

"Not yet. After." Selene went silent. I heard her move. She was in the corner of my vision. She looked to be holding something, but I couldn't feel or see anything that she could be holding.

A few minutes went by. The ambulance finally got a move on once the IV was in my arm. The constant rumble of the objects in the emergency vehicle wasn't helping my head.

I glanced at Selene. Her blonde hair was over her shoulder as usual. With a wince, I turned my head. I grew concerned as soon as I saw her glasses were off. She sniffed.

I felt ten million times worse. I was immobilized and I couldn't speak without excruciatingly painful jolts going through my jaw. I couldn't comfort her at all. I regretted ever drinking and making her feel this bad. Despite my thoughts, I could do nothing to help her.

Selene made eye contact with me. I was right. She was crying. "I know you can't do anything to comfort me. Don't be concerned." Even if she said not to be concerned, her words only made me want to comfort her more. "Can you feel your left arm?"

"No," I managed to say. It hurt like a stab in multiple areas of my jaw, but I would say a whole speech for her with a broken jaw.

My statement only seemed to hurt her. Her eyes fell. "Oh..."

Minutes passed by. The ambulance came to a stop. Selene followed my gurney into the hospital and down multiple halls. I kept my eyes closed, trying to keep the thought of pain away. My neck, still turned, was beginning to hurt at the angle it was set at.

I heard Selene farther back and a set of doors opening. "You're going into surgery. Don't worry, we'll make sure you're asleep." I guessed the person speaking was directing his phrase at me. But I couldn't see what I needed surgery for. Then I heard a feminine cry.

"No! You can't do that!" It was Selene. My eyes snapped open.

"Calm down, she'll be fine. So will you." I wasn't so sure. I only had broken limbs. I shouldn't be going into surgery. What was Selene freaking out about? I could say nothing to protest my location, so I remained still on the gurney.

.

I woke up. My vision was blurred and I felt extremely tired. I almost fell back to sleep, but I heard two voices speaking from not too far away. I shifted slightly, feeling pillows under my head and back.

"...think that he'll say?"

"I don't know. I know he's not going to take it easily, though."

"Maybe he will. He's a cool-headed guy. Optimism sometimes goes through his head."

I recognized the first voice instantly. It was Desmond. The second one was Selene.

"How many months are you?"

"Only four."

"So you're due in November?"

"Yes." Selene sounded pleasant. I already knew she was excited to be a mother in five more months. Frankly, I was terrified to be a father. I was only 24. I'd only been married for a year. Yet here I was, laying in a hospital bed with a pregnant wife not too far from me.

I moved my jaw slightly. It didn't hurt as much as before, but it still made me wary of speaking. I managed to sit up, looking over to Selene and Desmond. They both looked surprised that I was awake.

"Good morning, drunky." Of course the teasing with Desmond would start. He grinned at me. "Hope your fifteen hour nap went well."

"Fifteen?" I mumbled.

"Yep." He looked like he didn't want to mention something. "So...er...anything hurt?"

"Jaw."

"Thought so..." His voice trailed off.

Selene took a deep breath. "Augustine, you don't have a left arm."

I blinked. Of course I had a left arm. Luckily, it hadn't gotten injured. I didn't feel it because I didn't move it. I opened my mouth to protest, but she shook her head.

"Just look."

Puzzled, I did as she said. My heart stopped. I could feel the blood rush out of my face. The breath in my lungs were punched out.

My arm was gone. None of it was on me. All that I saw in its place was the bed. I looked at my right arm just to make sure that was still there. I was relieved to see it was.

"They had to amputate it because all the nerves in your arm..." She took a breath. "If you had it, you wouldn't be able to feel anything. I'm sorry."

I could feel my eyes stinging. I swallowed hard. I managed to nod. "I understand..."

"You'll still be able to do a lot of things. Maybe you can get a prosthetic."

"A prosthetic? I can't stand prosthetics, Selene." It was true. Seeing those "Barbie arms" gave me chills.

"It doesn't have to look like that. You can get something different."

"I'll still have to deal with one arm...if I even want one." My jaw was growing sore. Selene had long since gone silent.

...

For almost a year I had only one arm. For a very long time, I refused to get anything close to a prosthetic. But then Katy was born. Selene managed to convince me that I needed a prosthetic to handle caring for her.

With Katy around, Selene was much more stressed. I already knew she had cheated once. Of course, she didn't know I worked with him - she didn't know I was an assassin - but after I had seen messages of the two talking, I confronted him. He didn't hide it at all. He didn't know she was married. She had told him she was single.

When I had confronted her about it, however, things went downhill. She lied to me without a single flaw. Without hesitation. But she had me wrapped around her finger.

She had told me that she'd never do it. She expressed how much she loved our family. But soon after I had gotten my mechanical arm, she had found out that I was an assassin.

To put things into perspective, Selene is a major neurotic. Hearing I was an assassin, she went off on me. She demanded a divorce, demanded I put Katy up for adoption. She was almost two at the time, and I was already insanely attached to her. Putting her up for adoption was something I wasn't willing to do.

I agreed. As heartbroken as I was, Selene was a liar. Liars are something I can't stand. So she left back to England, thinking Katy was gone and all her blood ties to me were severed.

Of course I was upset about the sudden separation, but Katy became my top priority. Despite those words, I didn't quit my job. If I quit, I'd be killed. My boss stressed that. He said it wasn't because of the cruelty of the company, but because there had been a few instances where people had quit and reported everything that happened to the police. So, company in jeopardy, nobody left without having a death wish.

...


	2. Chapter 1

I joined Kierkov at the age of 22. Desmond joined Alker two years later. Something different between the companies are the certain "passing rituals" you have to go through. As elaborate and cliché as it sounds, it's really just killing someone - for me anyway. His was just showing that he knew how to handle a gun. Mine was actually killing someone and not getting caught. Why this is important when I said we were going into the whole kidnapping? Well. You'll see.

...

Again, I looked at the bright green slip of paper in my hand. I glanced down the empty street with tall apartments and lamp posts sprawling across the darkness. A crinkle of paper as I took a step forward made me jump. I was still in college. This was stupid...

The piece of paper in my hand had a phone number scribbled on it in red pen. I could barely read it. I stepped to one of the metal lamp posts, the gold light spilling on top of me and the paper. I looked either way down the night-covered street before reading it.

" _If you don't want to go through with it, just call this number_."

Under it was a nine-digit number with a smiley face at the end of it. Beside it was an address and name. I shoved the paper into the pocket of my jacket. I shivered - the jacket I had on was much too light. I needed to look for a new one other than a GAP brand.

I walked across the street, not bothering to look for cars. I was in the low-class part of town. Desmond would be watching a movie farther away from here, bought with his aunt's inheritance. Probably a horror movie on Netflix or a drama off of TLC. I swallowed.

My nerves were building. I adjusted the satchel over my shoulder. It was insanely light yet felt like a brick. I was walking slow on purpose. The jagged sidewalk barely moved past my sneakers as I looked ahead of me to a small house wrapped in yellow brick and a broken roof colored a faded red. My heart stopped for a second as panic rose. I hurriedly fished the paper out of my pocket, seeing that the address on the side of the house didn't match up. I let out a breath of relief.

I returned the paper to the pocket. I needed to calm down - I was 22, not five when I had gotten lost in the store and freaked out without my mother near me. I could handle this.

I looked beyond the yellow house to one more monochrome. It was painted a dark blue with a black roof. It looked like the house was in the best condition on this whole street. There was a small line of trees behind the house, most of them dead and leaves surrounding them with the branches slowly losing their foliage.

Again, I looked at the paper. It calmed my nerves to read something. I looked up to the numbers on the front of the house. They matched up.

I committed the number to memory before tearing the paper up and tossing them wherever. That was another requirement - something about privacy and evidence. I took a deep breath and slid the satchel off of my shoulder.

I approached the house, the dry lawn crunching beneath me. All of the lights were out. I went up to the window. Small cracks in the window showed a small kitchen with a yellow round table in the center. A clean counter with a sticky note on it. The fridge had several of the same notes, some of them different colors.

I looked further in and set my satchel down next to me, able to make out a couch and a small television. A book case was set beside it. It was sparsely filled with books, none of the titles I was able to read from the distance and the darkness.

I looked at the window again. The frame of it was thick wood - it looked heavy. There was no lock on it. I shakily managed to open the window mid-way before it slammed down on my hand. I yelled out in pain before cutting myself off. I forced the window open and freed my hand, seeing a red and purple mark already forming on my hand. I took quick breaths, attempting to calm myself down.

Then a light flicked on from inside the house. I felt the blood rush from my face. I darted to the line of trees, crunching though the leaves and hiding behind the largest tree to the side. I sunk down against the tree, my heart pounding against my chest.

I didn't dare look back. More than likely the person would come out and check for what had yelled out and what made the window slam shut.

What felt like hours pass by in the dead of night was only a matter of minutes. I heard no movement; I only heard the sound of my breathing and the rustle of a breeze through the copse of trees.

I waited for a few more minutes. I heard the distant sound of a dog barking from across the street. I silently crossed my legs, resting my hands in my lap. I looked around me.

 _The satchel._

I chewed my lower lip. I really didn't want to proceed with the mission. But I wanted to become an assassin - just in order to get to one person. I was deceiving Desmond, George, Kono-Chan, and Selene just to name a few. They were the most important people in my life. Yet here I was, hiding and debating whether or not to end someone else's life for my own selfish reasons.

I felt a chill ride through my body. I zipped my jacket up. I knew I would have to leave the safety of the tree line at some point if I really did want to get serious. If I left the satchel, I wouldn't be able to succeed in the mission. I didn't want to fail it. I would have no other outlet to my main target. As weird as it sounds, I needed to get this job done.

I stood, glancing at my watch. Two in the morning. It had been a while since I had made a sound. The inhabitant of the house most likely went back to bed. I stood, glancing back to the satchel and the window. I looked at my hand. It was only dark red and bruised from what I could tell. The moonlight didn't shine much upon me through the tree leaves.

I silently stalked across the grass with what little I could remember of my tips. My "trainer" hadn't really told me anything - just small evasive moves and quiet walking. The only real thing he had taught me was a clean cut on the side of the neck. I guessed it was an artery. He said they'd die pretty quickly from blood loss.

He also said to wear gloves. I cursed under my breath. I walked faster to the satchel, flipping it open and reaching into the third side pocket. Two latex gloves greeted my fingers as I tugged them out. I stretched them onto my hands, wincing slightly when it reached the red that marred my skin.

I glanced to the window where light had poured out from previously. It was as dark as the rest of the houses on the street. No one was awake.

I took yet another deep breath. It was shaky. I slung the satchel over my shoulder. I fished a hair pin from a pocket sewn into the makeshift pockets in the seams of the bag. I crept to the front of the house, carefully scanning the other houses for other telltale lights; none appeared. I knelt down to the door knob, my hands trembling.

My mind was blank. Was I even taught lock picking? I chewed my lip, panicking. If I couldn't even lock pick a door, I was even more screwed. I jammed the pin into the lock. Images of my instructor flashed behind my eyes. I quickly copied the movements before I forgot. The door gave a click and I stood.

I opened the door silently. I froze when I saw a figure with a gaunt expression in partial darkness and light. Pale complexion. He looked afraid as if he'd seen a ghost or his house was being invaded; and it was. It was easy to see he was trembling. He stood in a doorway directly across from me, gripping a knob as if it were his lifeline. His eyes glinted red over his hazel colour. The breath I'd been holding released. Long white hair pulled into a loose ponytail. It was me.  
I closed the door without so much as a click. I glanced at the mirror in front of me. It showed nothing. No frightened expression or Bloody Mary. I pressed a finger on the glass. Was I really that petrified male in the mirror?

I slunk through the darkness, barely detecting my surroundings. I saw the very faint outline of stairs. I tried to recollect whatever knowledge I had of climbing stairs quietly, but none came. I went up the stairs, the occasional creak giving away my location. I swallowed every time, staying still and checking for any sound of anyone stirring.

Finally I reached the second floor. From the outside, it didn't look like there was a second floor. But yet I saw blank blue walls of the second story. No pictures lined the blue surface. The only thing that showed was a single high school diploma distributed to a girl named Ana.

A chill went down my spine. That was the name of the woman I had to kill. I ground my teeth together. I crept past the diploma and down the empty hallway. There was only two doors. I could see the edge of tile from the one on the left. I guessed a bathroom. The other one was her bedroom.

Nerves shocked up my body. Did I really want to kill someone? Did I want to ruin my reputation? I was given a chance to leave if I wanted to during this mission...they warned never again I would have that mercy. Do I want a life living under a knife?

I gripped the satchel strap. I had to focus. I had to sacrifice a lot in order to get where I wanted in life. And that was West City...on the other side of the world. Kierkov knew my intentions. That was needed on the application. If I manage to allow myself to enter this company, then I will be able to go not only there, but to other CEOs' country who have done wrong.

I reached for another hair pin in case her bedroom door was locked. I turned the knob, seeing it open. I took a step in. I looked to the bed, seeing a lumpy surface showing upon the surface of the sheets.

I took another step forward. The room was decorated with a chest of drawers and a closet. A mirror rested above the chest, a golden border across the trim of it. The wallpaper was a royal red paired with a golden stripe down the center of every wall - definitely not what I had expected to see compared to the rest of the pale blue house. The covers matched the wallpaper, red with gold trim. The carpet was a midnight blue, contrasting against the bold red.

I opened the satchel, making sure not to start freaking out. I kept reminding myself of my motive. I reached into the satchel, pulling out a thin knife.

Then I was on the floor. A shooting pain was in the back of my knee, making me wince. I carefully stood up, only to see a pink, fluffy bunny slipper stomp in front of my face. I froze, halfway into getting up. A lamp light flashed on.

" _Who_ are you and _why_ are you here?!" It was a high female voice. It was only an octave higher than normal. She sounded panicked rather than angered that an intruder was in her house.

"My name is Augustine...and I...um...I'm here to..." I wanted to smack myself. The words just tumbled out of my lips. My identity was exposed to a witness.

"Kill me, _right_?!"

"No..."

" _Liar_!" She delivered a blow to my side, making me fall over. "I saw the knife!"

"B-But I wasn't going to kill you," I stammered, taking slow deep breaths in an attempt to distract myself from the pain. "Promise."

"Then why would you invade my house and come up to my bedroom with a _KNIFE?!_ "

I avoided the question with another question: "Is your name Ana Sanders?" My voice was a trembling tree branch in a tornado. The rest of my body was almost the same. I didn't know what to do in this situation. I lifted my head from the carpet and glanced for my satchel.

My head was slammed down back to the carpet. I winced. A floppy, fluffy pink ear fell in front of my face. I saw a small glimpse of the long tan strap under the chest of drawers.

"I have a green belt in jujitsu! If you're gonna kill me, you better have a _fuckin' BLACK BELT!"_

A tang of annoyance went through me. "Cursing is unladylike."

"Who is in the position to say what's ladylike?! Not _YOU_ , Mr. I'm-Gonna-Kill-Ana-Sanders!"

Says the one who's bunny slippers smell like Cheetos.

"I can just leave." It came out as a squeak like a teen going through puberty.

"Yeah, right!"

Jeez. Imagine a movie with a rookie - lower than a rookie - being pinned by a bunny slipper. James Bond definitely wouldn't allow that.

What _would_ James Bond do?

Ana kept running her mouth. I hadn't even seen what she looked like. All I've seen is carpet and fuzzy slippers. That changed when I darted my arm up to hook her from behind her knee, making her legs buckle and fall to the ground.

She was slim with a sheer-up-to-the-thigh nightgown coloured a dark blue. Her dark red hair spilled over her shoulders. Small specks of freckles dotted her tan cheeks and nose. Her bright brown eyes glowed with alarm.

My cheeks flared red as I saw the lace red underwear as she went down. I darted my eyes away instantly, seeing her give out a yell as she caught me looking. She swung her leg upward, hitting me square in the jaw. My teeth glanced together, leaving a ringing pain through my mouth. I grabbed her ankle as she started to get up, slamming her down onto the carpet.

I looked to the satchel. Her eyes followed mine, bolting her arm forward.

I was already at the satchel, rifling through the bag to find my weapon and moving away from Ana quickly. I wanted to get it over with. I didn't want to continue being terrified. The bag was completely empty. Typical. How many movies have this scenario?

Unlike the movies, the knife was right next to the dresser. I darted for it, seeing Ana attempt to do the same. In my head, a million strategies on killing zoomed through so fast that I couldn't even process what to do. As I turned I felt a sharp tug at my ponytail, forcing me down. I blindly swung the knife in a single arc next to me, feeling it make contact with something fleshy. Something like dread stabbed in my chest. I didn't want to see the blood dripping or the same crimson dying the knife tip. Though I dared myself to do so, feeling the grip on my hair go slack. That or she let go...I prayed for the latter.

I carefully turned, seeing Ana in mid-shock, staring at her chest where my knife connected. Heavy blood spilled from her breast, her chest heaving with panicked breaths. Then she seemed to breathe in for a longer one, but I could tell what that was leading to. She was going to scream.

On impulse, I tackled her to the floor, a loud thump sounding and silencing her as I pressed my arm against her throat. She took another deep breath, though taking one in order to prepare herself for biting into my arm, hard. She lashed out at me, nails and all, attempting to damage me. And she did, blood seeping through my jacket from where she had bit me.

I quickly drew back, though staying on top of her. I watched her punch at my chest. I could already feel bruises forming. I brought my knife up, but I hesitated.

I had already come this far. It was time to seal the deal.

She opened her mouth, tears streaming down her face.

"Please, please, I'll give you my money, the deed to the house, _ANYTHING! I'm begging you! If you want, you could even-!"_

Silence. My panting breath was the only thing in the warm vanilla lamp-lit room making sound. I shrugged my jacket off, my white shirt still clean compared to my bloodied arm. I exhaled. I didn't look at the knife. I darted out of the house, doing nothing to hide the scene. I tugged the gloves off and returned to Kierkov for a new decoration...

...

I exhaled. My hazel eyes reflected back at me. My short white hair seemed brighter in the mirror. A frown formed across my lips. A faint red mark on my right cheek. I swallowed hard. My throat felt like I was swallowing an egg.

That didn't matter. My personal life had no bearing over me. Not right now. Not when I was so close to gaining my purpose - I was almost 30. This wasn't the time for my life to get in my way. I gripped the counter, my left prosthetic metal hand pressing against the marble. It was hard to focus. With her words still in my head, I turned off the bathroom light and entered the bedroom.

It didn't look like how I remembered it. I remembered a plush bed with an antique end table on the left side. I picked up the watch on the floor, its surface cracked but the inner clockwork still working. I tossed it on the bed with covers in a mess and pillows on the floor. I looked down at my arm, four small marks with dried blood near my vein.

The mirror next to the wardrobe was cracked. Small pieces of glass littered the smooth carpet. Beneath it was a picture frame down on its face. I knew what was there. I didn't want to see.

My life still felt like a story. Nothing like my life would happen to anyone else. If I told it to anyone, I'm sure they would scoff and call me a liar and a martyr. This moment was no exception.  
I walked past the mess, pulling out a dress shirt from atop the dresser. I pulled my shirt off, seeing the familiar scar near my chest from the surgery of my arm. I buttoned the white shirt, turning to the knocked over end table and bending down to pick up the tie that's normally folded on top that was now on the floor. I picked up my blazer, looping the tie over my neck and almost stepping on a ring with small gems and lettering on the back. I stepped over it on the way to the door. Then I paused.

I'm a pushover. I'm an optimist. I forgive and forget. With a small bit of hope, I picked up the ring and placed it on the left bedside, on top of the turned over comforter. I continued out the bedroom door and pulled the blazer on. The papers were still on the kitchen table next to a partially-eaten green apple and vanilla folder. I threw the apple, thinking of Katy. A hasty signature was at the bottom of the page.

I picked up the pen on the other side of the table, almost fallen off, and slowly signed my name. I picked up the folder. I grabbed a sticky note and wrote a quick note, placing it on the bottom corner:

" _I keep Katy_."

...

A knife sunk into the hardened flesh. I threw another. It landed in the middle of their throat. A choking, gurgling sound of a scream failed into a modified version of choking on blood filled the open room. I heard movement behind me, a bare whisper of charged energy before I ducked from the thrown object. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, though it was counterbalanced by calm - this is what I had gotten used to. Even breathing, calm nerves, a clear mind. I inhaled, drawing another knife, spinning around, and cutting through flesh-

"Hey, hey, I think you need to calm down a bit." The Russian accent cut through my concentration. His hand gripped my wrist, held dangerously close to his throat. His lone eye had an etching of danger. He stared me in the face before he cracked a smile.

"Very nice though, Diez. You had much more intent than I've seen all year. This new assignment must have motivated you." That wasn't the case. The new assignment I had was dreadfully boring. I had different reasons to blow off steam.

I slowly drew my arm back. I glanced at the realistic dummy with fake blood pouring from its neck before looking back to Kierkov. There was a sharp slice in his eye patch. "See what you did? That's the second one." He casually pulled it off, his right eye remaining closed with a scar over his eye.

"Sorry, it was an accident. Do you have another?"

"In my desk in my office, yes." He took the knife from me, stepping in front. "Diez..." He paused, suddenly the knife flying from his fingertips with little effort and burying itself in the artificial dummy several feet away, blood spilling down, another gurgling attempt at a scream coming from it. A perfect shot - one much better than what I had thrown. He examined his work with silence. "I've been wondering. How do you wear your wedding ring?"

A lomg silence came between us. His back faced me as he judged his aim. "Your arm...your left, yes? The prosthetic? A wedding ring is worn on that hand. Where do you wear yours?"

I glanced at my left hand. "I-"

"No. Think about the question."

He was acting a lot more serious than usual. These types of statements were unlike my usually drunken employer. He laughed. "Nevermind. I guess you are unable to answer the question now." He turned...both eyes open.

His right eye had a deep scar over clear white. A red line was drawn in a jagged, uneven line to match the rest upon his skin. It looked like marker on a clear whiteboard made with a ruler for straight edges or even just red food coloring dripped into milk. I swallowed slowly. I'd never seen him open his right eye. I didn't think he was able.

He closed it in a semi-permanent wink. "I still need an answer, Diez."

"I don't know...er, Sir. I just..." I chewed my bottom lip, looking to the floor as if the answer would rise from the floor. I always kept my ring on my right hand, but it felt like the wrong answer. It was answering a biology question when really answering an algebra question.

"Augustine."

His voice was sharp and crisp. My eyes instantly moved to his. He looked deathly serious. He never used my first name. It had always been the formal "Diez". But now, he looked as if he were about to address a terrorist.

"Your story is highly unlike anyone else's. I've heard about orphans. Suicide attempters. Amputees. _Divorcees_..." He stressed the final word, watching my reaction carefully. "But not all into one. Maybe two out of four, but never all four. Before you were normal, average." He took a step forward. "But just last night, that mark upon your cheek that has long since faded had been placed there. A ring was thrown. An important picture smashing a mirror. Pillows thrown and curses shouted. Two troubled lovers even going so far to yell outside where neighbors could hear. One, terrified and with keys in hand, going to her car, only for the other to desperately try to make her stay by holding the key from turning...and now he's left with four small marks and his right arm. A little girl sleeping soundly, unaware of the yelling and screaming late at night.

"Now...only this morning did you gain four tragedies. But my question _...how do you wear your wedding ring?"_ He paused. His eye told me not to answer. "With the wrong arm, how do you wear your ring? With the thought of your possibility of never being alive today, _how do you wear your ring?_ With blood on your hands and now a daughter on your hands, _how do you wear your ring?"_

This time he gave me a chance to answer.

"I don't know. I just do." I lifted my right arm, the gold bond still placed on my ring finger.

I remembered the yelling late at night. It had been the last of our fights before Selene ultimately left this morning. After all my late nights at work without her knowing that I was an assassin - and her being a neurotic - she assumed I was cheating. But she was dreadfully wrong...and she knew that. My desperate attempts to keep her from driving away, the attempts of keeping the family together. Of course I was stressed - that was why I was in here when he came in.

I knew better than to ask how he knew about what happened. He had millions of connections. I wouldn't be surprised if that included some version of spying. And even if I did know how he knew, I didn't understand his question.

He smiled. "You're thinking wrong. Not literals, Augustine. How do you wear it knowing you have hated yourself, your parents didn't attend your wedding, and now even the woman you exchanged vows with doesn't wear that ring? What makes you continue to wear that ring? Why do you pull that joker smile when really you have _indescribable_ hate inside?"

His words took me off guard. The emptiness of the training room sucked the oxygen out of the room. He pulled an actual smile, again taking me off guard. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a silver flask decorated with gold, taking a large swig.

"You have a new assignment. Instead of Kassandra - your previous assignment - you will go after the one most of your hate has been concentrated upon. You can have _Bulma Briefs."_

...

A week passed. Selene left. She didn't apologize. She didn't put up a fight for custody of Katy. She cursed me, tossing all our years together to the wind. Katy cried once I told her.

In that week, the date to finally do what I dreamed of for years of my life crept up in loud whispers. Excited fear tensed my body the day it came. Terrified adrenaline coursed through me. I waited until well after midnight. All doors locked at home, Katy asleep in bed, all that was left was to complete the assignment.

Now, you might think that I might be a little insane. Many people are. It's what generates opinions, the thoughts of ruling a country. Mine was simply fueled by the want to avenge and gain what I wanted back. Driving to the corporation that had ended my parents' life that led to everything else seemed to be five steps in front of me.

A lot of this story may seem odd. A lot of it might be because of my terrible choices. A lot of my choices have influenced me - but no one is exempt from that. Now...haven't you been awaiting the main part of the story? Allow me to stop rambling and cut to the action.

...

I stood in the living room, nine different bodies on the floor. Each of them had a pulse. All of them were unconscious.  
Three steps away.  
I checked again to see if they were awake. I slipped a small plastic piece out of the front pocket of my jacket in the shape of a small square, prepared to put its qualities to use - I ended up not having to. I knelt beside one of the Saiyans, taking one of the syringes out of his arm. This one was Bulma's husband. Even if he was extremely deadly, his powers wouldn't work at all with the serum in his system.

The same faired for the light-haired son named Trunks. There was a small girl, but she was already out cold in the other front room. The other six - the Son family - had the same condition. All that was left was Bulma herself.

I wasn't sure of where she was. I hadn't seen her anywhere downstairs. I headed toward the stairs, the inner map of the mansion imprinted in my head despite the maze. A multitude of pictures sat on bookshelves. Different shades of light decorated different rooms.

I didn't hesitate ascending the stairs. I silently went up the stairs, my head calm and clear. I didn't stop to look at my surroundings once I was at the top - I knew where I was looking first. Down the hall was a room labeled with flowers, most likely for a little girl. Another door was to the left. I didn't bother with it. Not yet, anyway.

I moved to a door, slowly turning the knob to the right, surprised it wasn't locked. I took a single step forward, moving with the door. I heard no shuffle of movement, no panicked breathing. No one was behind the door. My hand hovered over my jacket, ready to bolt to the inner pocket and throw it to anyone's throat.

In front of me was a red satin bed. A balcony opening was to my left, showing the dark night. Outside was a crescent moon showered by stars. I returned my attention to the bed with a dresser next to it. A bathroom was to the right.

I slowly approached the bed, seeing a shift in the sheets. I again glanced back down the open hallway behind me. I crept to the side of the bed, my hand gripping the handle of a throwing knife. I reached for the blanket.

I couldn't tell who it was under the blanket - their whole body was underneath it. The only thing that gave away that a person was there was the movement every so often.

I threw the blanket off, quickly pressing the knife against a pale throat. I was looking down at the president of Capsule Corporation, Bulma Briefs. She was completely asleep - drunk from the scent. She was even dressed in a revealing cross-strap red dress with heels still on. Her makeup wasn't smeared at all. She didn't stir from the movement of the blanket, nor did she shiver from the lack of warmth.

I had this chance to end her. Slit her throat and leave. Have my revenge fulfilled and live a quiet life with this profession without any harbored hate. I could pull a more genuine smile to Katy. I could have some weight off my shoulders. I pressed the knife into her skin, almost cutting through it.

My phone vibrated.

I moved my knife away from her throat, reaching for my phone with my free hand. A text message.

" _I hope you know what you're doing, Diez. Think what would benefit others._ "

There was no ID. I didn't need one to know who it was. My boss was as creepy as he was deadly. He knew my movements and my own motives. It made me wonder if he was psychic or he just had some cameras around.

I pocketed the phone. I sheathed the knife, pulling out the same square I had before. I pressed the sharp edge against her wrist, seeing blood trickling slowly from the cut. I pressed my finger against her skin in an attempt to stem the bleeding. It wasn't heavy, but since it was a vein, it wasn't light bleeding either. I slipped a hand into my side pocket, a small vial with a glass lid the first thing I feel next to my cellphone. I pulled it out, popping the lid off with my teeth and pressing the sharp point onto the cut and into the vein, seeing the light green liquid pour into her vein.

I gently picked her up from the bed, stepping towards the balcony. I took out my phone, pressing in a number and making a phone call. Impatient minutes later, I heard a car. I looked down at the fresh-cut lawn covered my moonlight before a pair of eyes caught my attention moments later.

"Are you going to actually be able to catch her?" I asked quietly from atop the balcony.

His pale blue eyes showed annoyance. He crossed his arms.

"Yeah. I'm no beefcake, but I'm not a noodle either."

"Desmond, I'm serious."

"Okay, great, now drop her."

I sighed. I glanced down at the president, chewing my lip in anxiety. If her head cracked open, I was screwed. I leaned over the stone railing of the balcony, seeing Desmond holding his arms out to catch her. With intense fear, I let her go.

Down she went. I closed my eyes, just waiting for a crack or for a loud thump on the grass. I heard neither. Instead I heard someone cursing and a soft landing. I glanced over the stone, seeing Desmond managed to catch her.

I let go of a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding. "Told you I would catch her," Desmond murmured. I ignored him, hopping onto the railing and gripping the edge as I allowed myself to fall. I hung on the railing before seeing a window ledge nearby. I inched around the perimeter of the balcony, swinging to window ledge diagonal from the surface and latching onto that instead. From there, I dropped down safely. Desmond held out Bulma's unconscious form.

"Take your kidnapping prize. I want nothing else to do with her. I already broke all of my bones once. I don't wanna go through that again." I laughed.

"Alright. Sorry for waking you. Goodnight." I took her from him, holding her bridal style.

"It's fine. I was watching horror movies anyway." He held his hand up and walked away before hesitating. "Don't get yourself killed."

"I'll try." I tossed a grin in his direction, watching him leave to his car. I shifted her weight on my arm as he drove off. I made my way to my own car, the dark blue not sticking out against the darkness of the night. A chill rode up my spine.

I knew what an alien could do when angry. A Saiyan. Desmond was a complete wreck after what happened. Each one of his bones were broken except for one bone in his right arm. His skull was cracked open and had a major concussion after just one soaring hit from a full-blooded Saiyan. That scared the living crap out of me. If he woke up and happened to figure out I was here (syringe and all) then I would turn into the world's most handicapped man.

I glanced at Bulma again, her head against my chest. I could see why Desmond would fall for her - hell, I think he still loves her (then, not now). I'm not exactly a matchmaker, but Desmond being his theatrical, poetic, and single self, I could see why he would instantly fall head over heels for the CEO. However, I could easily bypass her looks. To me, she was probably the most hideously cruel woman I'd ever have the dishonor of touching.

I opened the car door, gently placing her onto the covered seat. I leaned over to buckle her in, clicking it into the small slot before something dug into the back of my neck. I froze.

I heard Bulma murmur something. She was gnawing on my neck. Was she awake? She seemed too limp to actually be awake...

Several seconds went by until she finally let go. I slowly straightened myself, seeing that she was in fact asleep. I grimaced. I fished a handkerchief out of my jacket pocket, wiping my neck before going to the other side of the car and buckling in. I leaned back in the seat before. Glancing over to the heiress.

She didn't have her cellphone on her - it was on the bed stand. Her bedroom was a mess. She's now missing. It wasn't the type of circumstance I liked. I've had messier scenes, but this had the most dangerous consequences I've been faced with.

Working for six years as an assassin, I'd never been faced with my life on the line.

I flicked the key into the ignition, punching the radio on. Classical music poured from the stereo.

Driving down the midnight-poured street, I typed in most of Arturo Kierkov's phone number before he sent a call to me instead. I turned the radio down and placed the phone to my ear.

"Which syringe did you use, Diez?"

"Green," I replied, glancing across both sides of the street. Both streets were empty - unusual for a city.

"Not yellow or red, right?"

I nodded despite the fact that he couldn't see it. "Yes, Sir. I'm not looking to kill or paralyze anyone."

"Gloves?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Evidence?"

"...Yes...Sir," I added quickly.

"Level?"

"Well...her cellphone was left and some pieces of the room were displaced. I'd say a three."

"Shit. You realize that's bad with that group?"

"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir. I tried my best."

A long pause and murmuring of Russian came from the other end. "It's fine. Do each of them have a syringe?"

"All members of the family have a syringe implanted."

"Are you _sure_ you got _everyone_?"

"Yes, Sir."

The streets were dark and clear other than the occasional lit window or doorstep. I was beginning this part of the city when a small car that can only accommodate two people rolled down the street.

Another long pause.

"As your employer, I will take responsibility for your funeral bill if they wake up and use whatever they use for flying to find you."

"Thank you, Sir, though that isn't very convincing for my situation."

"You'll be fine, Diez. Just don't let your...circumstances get in the way of your focus. You're one of the top assassins, and you've only messed up slightly on certain missions. _Don't let the one you've been waiting on be the first major mess up._ " That said, he hung up.

I sighed. All of today he's been weird - well, now it's three in the morning, so I should say today and yesterday. It's still odd how he's been mentioning the recent divorce.

I grimaced.

I glanced at Bulma. She'd gone through a divorce. Then Desmond came along. Of course, he didn't know. Call it rotten luck, but Desmond could have stayed with her had it not been for her being targeted by his employer. Though I couldn't really picture him with her.

I stopped at a red light. Where was I supposed to be going, anyway? They couldn't sense her energy, so she couldn't be tracked. I already knew she didn't carry any bugs or wires with her unless she went to a meeting or somewhere dangerous. The only thing they could probably track would be me, but there was nothing there that could possibly give off that it was me. I peeled off my glove, the weird feeling from wearing it ebbing away painfully slow.

The light changed from red to green. For now, I was just driving around and thinking. Eventually, they would get their powers back. Those Saiyans wouldn't be Saiyans for 24 hours - that isn't a lot of time for me to go anywhere. Two families were there, though - that's a lot of people to subdue. Especially one man.

If I remembered correctly, his name was Goku. It was reported that he knew how to teleport. I personally didn't believe that. But I didn't want to stick around for that to happen. But I was told that he could only do it with...energy, or something. Yes, I've mentioned it a multitude of times, but it was just an odd term to me. I just nodded my head and pretended to understand when it came to work.

I passed by what looked like a strip joint. I sped up slightly. I hated those places. Their lights were much too neon and their usage of icons were distasteful. Then again, it was my opinion. Other than the occasional hooker - unfortunately - the sidewalk and street was empty. A few cars stopped at the joint as I drove past, but otherwise, downtown West City was deserted.

I heard the sound of movement next to me. I glanced to Bulma, seeing she was still asleep. Either way, she wouldn't be waking up from the green serum in her veins. Her energy signal would be masked and undetectable. Who knows - she might even be assumed dead.

I needed to distance myself from them. The best option was to leave Japan. Even if they woke up unexpectedly - which they shouldn't - it'd be a while for them to get me. Besides...I could end her whenever. She shouldn't be alive and in my car. She was a dead woman sleeping above the grave.

And drooling.

I slammed down on the breaks, hearing an angry honk behind me. I rifled for my handkerchief, wiping at her cheek and checking the seat for any of her dripping saliva.

"I can't believe this," I murmured, punching the radio button and stopping the classical music in its 64th measure of one of Beethoven's Sonatas. "Drooling all over the car seat...I just got these cleaned...and this is a Mustang, too, and I only got this a year ago..."

I heard my phone go off, but I let it ring. I was busy squirting hand sanitizer onto the seat and cleaning it. On the tenth ring, the idiot still hadn't hung up. I kicked down on the acceleration for the guy behind me, pocketing the handkerchief and picking up the phone that was still going off with another classical genre-placed song.

"Yes?" I snapped.

"Diez, what the _FUCK did you do_?!"

Oh. Oh no.

I swallowed. "Um...Sir, I'm not sure what you mea-"

"You know very well what I fuckin' mean! _Why is she in your god damn CAR and not in a fuckin' GRAVE?!"_

If you haven't noticed, my boss can be creepy, merciful, and a bit of a curser. I myself try to resign from cursing - it took a lot to refrain from requesting him to retain his language.

I glanced to Bulma. "Sir, you said to do what I think is best."

"And that meant _ENDING_ her! What the fuck went through your head that made you decide to drive off with someone worth literally _TRILLIONS?!_ Diez, you really screwed up. What the hell do you think you're going to do with her?!"

"I don't know yet, Sir. I just felt that I had to let her live and take her to one of our foreign bases." I could tell he was trying extremely hard to listen.

"Diez...you've only been working for me for six years. Who the hell made you think that you can start making decisions like this?"

"Sir, you said I can go after the woman I've been seeking for a majority of my life. If I feel the need to keep her alive, then I should have that right. You gave me full reign over this mission - you gave me no limitations. All you gave me was a date and time."

He was silent. "Point. Go for Hawaii. One, it's in America, so it'll be far away. Two, it's where my plane is headed. I will give you directions to get here once you arrive."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Next time you try something like this, I will either applaud you or fire you. Understood?"

"Understood, Sir."

"Good. Now get going. And start learning Hawaiian while you're at it."

...


	3. Chapter 2

It was already early morning. Dawn's rays were hitting the concrete in a warm yellow glow. The cloudy sky forecasted rain in the coming afternoon. A stray cat bounded across the marked parking lot, stopping at a orange car and staring directly at me.

I held a cigarette to my lips, flicking the lid off the Zippo lighter and lighting the tobacco. Taking a deep breath of the nicotine and chemicals, I frowned. I held my breath for a few seconds before letting it go, the foggy smoke clouding my vision of the enrapturing grey and yellow-coloured parking lot. I sighed.

I pocketed the lighter, stepping in the direction of the convenience store. A slim male store clerk looked half asleep. I continued through, getting three extra lighters, migraine pills, two bottles of water, one chocolate bar, a roll of ace bandages and a box of normal BandAids.

I quickly rang up the items and bagged them, taking a newspaper and map with me from the counter. I took another puff of the cigarette that I had hidden from the clerk. I step out, flashing a smile to the zombified cashier before seeing the door close behind me. I glanced through the front pages of the newspaper before I heard a loud bang.

I looked up, seeing Bulma awake and attempting to get the window broken since I had locked the door. I sighed, biting down on the cigarette lightly. I approached the car and unlocked the door, getting in.

"Who are you?!" She demanded. From the contortion on her face, she had a major headache. "Hello?!"

I reached into the bag, calmly sucking on the cigarette and attempting to find the bottle of migraine pills. I pulled them out along with the bottle of water. I rolled down the window, the acrid smoke from the nicotine-laced cigarette wafted out.

"I'll tell you my name in a little bit." I shook out two capsules into my right hand, offering them to her. When she didn't take them, I showed her the container. "They're brand new. I'm not drugging you."

She hesitantly took the pills from me. "But I can't do them dry-"

I twisted the cap open and handed the cold water to her as well. She accepted that with just as much hesitation until I told her I just bought the water. She downed both pills, holding onto the water. "Can you tell me your name now?"

"My name is George Dickinson," I lie. Well, it isn't fully lying. My brother's name and my mother's (unfortunate)maiden name. Okay, it's still lying.

"Well...why am I here, Mr. Dickinson?"

I gave her a friendly smile. "Call me George. To answer your question, I found you on this side of Japan, in North City." She looked out the window. I wasn't lying - it was North City. "I got a map so you could show me where your home was. I was concerned, you see, about how you, a beautiful woman in charge of a huge corporation, would get home."

Her shift in attitude changed quickly. "Oh. Sorry for trying to break your window, George. I thought you were a kidnapper." She laughed. I smiled.

A lot of this was pure poison to say and do to a snake like her. Really, in the back of my head, I saw this as fair to her. A slit throat wasn't the kind of death I wanted for her. Be it mercy or a sadist's wish, she was still living and breathing. Maybe it was a mistake. If it was, I could easily kill her. She wasn't a strong woman - from the looks of her, anyway - and it wouldn't be hard to take her down.

"Before I drove you home, I thought I could pick up my brother. Do you mind? He's recently getting home after some rough issues over in England."

"Oh, yeah, sure. Is he okay?"

"Yes, I'm just worried he'll wander." I sighed. "He's a war veteran, see...he has a bit of PTSD."

She nodded sympathetically. "I'm sorry. Of course we can. I hope he won't mind seeing a stranger."

"No, no, not at all. I got some extra things in case you were hungry." I set the bag in between us. She nodded. "Do you mind smoking?" I already knew the answer, of course.

"No. Do you have another?"

I nodded, reaching into my jacket and popping out a Marlboro. I lit it and handed it to her. I flicked the keys to the side, driving forward and out of the parking lot. I rolled the window down, blowing cigarette fumes out into the lazy morning light.

"So...how do you think I got here? I'm originally from West City, so it's pretty odd that I ended up in North City..."

"I'm not sure. You were completely intoxicated, however."

"Oh..." I was betting on the hope she didn't recall going to bed, and so far it was going well. Pretty much everything was riding on her consciousness and her willingness at least until we got off the plane. Problem was, I hadn't thought of a lie to get her on the plane yet.

Minutes went by as the sun slowly inched up over the buildings. The orange, milky light was laced with pink over the skyscrapers. Not many people were out on this side of town, despite the morning rush hour that I could hear in the distance. It would be a while until I could get to the airport in this condition. The habit of biting down on the cigarette when agitated came back. How I hated that habit.

"How do you think I managed to get from West to North so quick?" I glanced over to her. The look in her eyes alarmed me. Her body posture mirrored it.

Her sapphire blue eyes were ice cold. She didn't trust me - of course she didn't. She was tense and her body leaning away from me.

I resisted the urge to swallow. "I'm not sure. You tell me." I gave a disarming smile that took much practice to perfect.

"And why would you pick up a woman like me? You obviously did your homework. You knew I was a CEO." I gave a look that conveyed - hopefully - surprise.

"No, no, I wasn't thinking along those lines-"

"You even complimented me. What polite man would suddenly compliment a woman that they picked up in their car?"

I sighed. "I just wanted to help you. I'm not looking to rape you." The word seemed to make her eyes widen and she calmed. She went dead silent, staring out to the sunset.

I watched her for a few moments. I knew the whole story. I knew she wasn't quite comfortable with it. Even if I hated her more than I hated Hitler, I felt bad. She calmly breathed in the cigarette.

She didn't seem to want to speak anymore. I sigh, looking at the ashtray. I glanced at the dying cigarette in my hand. I took one last puff before crushing out the ashes.

I heard her shift next to me. I turned up the classical radio a little to ease the silence. To beat the rush hour, it was going to be a race. Obviously her trust was dwindling. If not, gone. Getting there before traffic - nearly impossible - and handling her weighing attitude would be a major challenge. And, of course, getting her ON the plane.

Bulma reached forward and changed the station. The pop station. I stared at her. She was back to looking out the window. I almost changed it, but decided against it.

"I hope you know I don't trust you," she hissed over her tobacco and nicotine. "At all."

"If you don't trust me, then why are you still in the car?" I watched her wrist twist.

"To do this." Suddenly she lunged forward in lightning speed, aiming for my right eye with a knife that suddenly got into her hand. I bolted my arm up, the blade moving to only graze my temple. I twisted her arm, hearing her cry out. I watched the knife drop on the dashboard. She reached out with her other arm, a futile attempt from her position, her arm pushed back. I grabbed the knife and pocketed it.

"What the hell is _WRONG_ with you?!" I demanded. It wasn't a light cut, but it wasn't major. I felt the hot liquid near my eye and I wiped it back with my free hand.

"You shouldn't have knives in an unlocked glove box," she said with an icy tone. It sent a shiver up my spine.

"You try to break my window _AND_ you steal my knife."

"Yeah. What would you do in a kidnapper's vehicle? Your story talks sweet, but your criminal history sings a lullaby."

"Uh-huh. Criminal history?"

"I know who to look out for. And you, _Augustine_ , are one of the ones that was on the list." Her eyes never left the floor of the car.

This was going to be a long flight.

 _ **...**_

With a compressed bandage against my forehead, the drive went silent. I wouldn't keep the bandage there. The attention would be suffocating. Too many recognizing eyes.

The radio had long since changed to classical again. Control was asserted after the knife incident. This woman had a lot more spunk and intellect I had given her credit for.

"Why are we really going to the airport?" Her tone was cold and distant.

I gave her no answer. Her averted eyes suddenly met mine. A red light glared. Her blue eyes were pricked with tears. Held back tears. I didn't blame her. This was a dangerous situation. But even then, she was just a dead man - woman - walking.

"You better give me a god damn answer. I will break this window and _scream-_ "

"Calm down. I'm surprised you haven't already. But even then, it's bulletproof. If a bullet can't shatter it, you can't either. Your best bet is to take me out." I paused, allowing her to register. She looked expectant. "Yes?"

"This is the part where you start gloating."

"I'm not a gloater." The light changed. I accelerated through downtown, occasionally hitting traffic but sometimes finding an exit to cut through. "I never was. Now, as for your question...I can't answer."

"Why?" She hissed.

"Because. Just like you, I have a job." I made eye contact with her. Her lips formed a line. "Just like you, I have rules to follow. Just like you, I need to make money."

"Oh, please!" She shouted, throwing her hands in the air. "Don't give me that _bullshit!_ All those fucking psychopaths out there say the _exact same thing!_ Don't you make it to where I'm like you, bastard. I'm nothing like _you_." She took a breath. "Unlike you, I have an honest job. I don't have blood on my hands."

Her elbow leaned on the sill. She lightly brushed her eyes that were wet with tears building up. "I can't believe I'm stuck in this car with you." Another breath; it was shaky. "But I'm fucking running. I swear to God I'm going to fucking _run_."

 _ **...**_

She kept her word. As soon as I parked in a relatively secluded spot, she opened her door and bolted. I had to rush out of the car, the door hanging open behind me. She was a fast runner, I'll give her that. But I was much taller than her, two inches away from being a complete foot above her. I was on her before she completely deserted the parking lot. Out of breath and heaving, I quickly looked around. One woman was to my right.

Her eyes were open wide. I could see from approximately 24 feet away that she was deciding whether or not if it was the truth or it was some affectionate tackle. I gave another quick glance around before reaching into my pocket. With Bulma under me and struggling, it almost got knocked out of my left hand. I switched to my right, the knife shooting from my fingers and burying itself just above her right eye.

No doubt she didn't deserve that, but there wasn't any other choice. With hasty speed of paranoia, I locked Bulma in the car, her icy glare shooting back at me as I moved to retrieve the knife and hide the body.

It wasn't the prettiest job I'd done. Her hair was a disheveled mass of brunette behind the airport. Someone would find her. Her family would weep, but she would at least not be missing.

I left everything on her person. I walked away, back to the car. Bulma had her cellphone in her hand, looking frustrated. I shook my head. I had long since taken the battery and the sim card out. She definitely wasn't getting out again - the door was locked from the outside.

As soon as I got in the car, she commenced yelling. "You just _KILLED_ an innocent woman! She could have had a _family_! And you just...you just..." Her hand glided through her short hair. She was obviously stressed.

I remained silent. Defending myself was useless. I focused to the commencing crowd of people. I sighed with relief inwardly. If I had waited a minute - less than a minute - I would've been seen.

I heard her taking deep breaths. Her shoulders were shaking slightly. I could imagine what she was thinking:

She was stuck with a man that could chase her down and send a knife through her skull with no remorse. The bad part was that she was right.

 _ **...**_

If she sent the man at the desk a warning look, he didn't catch it. He had a serenely painted-on look of customer satisfaction the whole time as I set up the passports. A flight that would arrive in 30 minutes is the best offer a person could get.

I gently led her to the waiting area that was scarce. Only an elderly man coughing into a handkerchief and his wife were there, and they were across the room. There was another waiting area that was fuller across from us.

She made a point to sit with one seat between us. The elderly man gave us a confused look, as if we were a couple. I gave a slight chuckle with a slight glance, making it seem as if it was a mistake. I moved and sat down next to her, gaining a grimace from her.

I moved to place a hand on her opposite shoulder, one, to keep her from moving away, and two, to make a show of the bluff the couple across from us had assumed.

"Get your hand-" She was close to yelling, but I tightened my grip on her shoulder, making her hush. I leaned forward, whispering quietly.

"If you think I'm going to kill you, it could go either way. But I'd prefer for you not to end up in a pool of your own blood. I'm not taking you to some sex-toy-filled room. I'm not even bringing to a place that you'll be near me. I'm not that kind of man. You're not going to get hurt. You'll be returned home after a few questions."

"And how do I know you're telling the truth?" She was at least being quiet.

"I have orders not to touch you in an offensive way. If you want proof of only a small interview, I can call my boss."

"Why were you making a huge deal of making sure I was concealed and locked?"

I paused. "I'm keeping you concealed because people would leap at Bulma Brief's feet. If you walked around normally, too many people would want to talk. Imagine the paparazzi. And to keeping you locked, that's to ensure that you don't run. Only by your actions do you control if I'm more lenient."

She was silent for a while. "If you take your hand off my shoulder, then I won't run."

"Can't. We're an assumed couple." I gave a subtle nod to the elderly man and woman across from us, watching and smiling at the show of youth.

"I feel bad for whoever has to be in a relationship with you."

"I'm sure my ex-wife would say the same."

 _ **...**_

With no problems, we boarded the plane. Of course, people were gawking at the CEO walking on a commercial flight, but none went to speak to her. All the better, if you ask me. So long as she wasn't broadcast as missing just yet.

I gestured for her to sit towards the window. She stared at me, wide-eyed. "I am not sitting at the window-"

"Ah, right, your little phobia." I sighed. "Fine. Sit in the middle. So long as you don't have an aisle seat. And I'm debating this - there are people behind us."

She rolled her eyes, sitting down. I followed suit next to her, smiling apologetically at the people now strolling past. Chatting went on like normal during take off, a few alarmed first-fliers yelling for oxygen. It wasn't common, but no one really said anything.

"How did you know about my phobia?" Her voice was quiet. She, going against her fear, stared out the window. Most likely to avoid eye contact.

"Sources."

"Details, please. If you're a stalker, I won't hate you more than I already do."

An edge of annoyance rang in my voice. "I'm not a stalker. Plus, you should be thanking me. I was supposed to have shot you while you slept." I made sure to be quiet, only a slight whisper the level I dared to speak at.

"I would've almost preferred that against what you're making everything sound like. Taking me away from my family is the worst thing you could have done." Then she faced me. Determination was in her eyes now. "Either way, my husband or son are going to come. You're not getting very far with this plan of yours."

I smiled. "No, sorry, I already know of their race."

"And? They can still sense where you are-"

"Yes, yes, I know they can sense 'energy'. But that's already been solved. I won't tell you how, however." I thought back to the syringe I had taken and made a note to inject myself once we landed.

She sighed. "Where are we even going?" The determined tone she had was gone.

"Ah, yes, I thought you had read it on your ticket. We're going to Hawaii."

 _ **...**_

The flight went smooth enough. I stayed awake for a majority of the time, the only times I slept being when I was sure she was asleep and was going to be for a while. If she attempted to make a move - though I doubted it, seeing the crowd of people - I wanted to be awake for it.

Long story short, I was severely tired and jet lag wasn't helping once I got off the plane. I was itching to change and get some proper sleep. I walked with her down the sunny path of the airport, both of us without luggage. Everything was mainly left in the car other than the chocolate bar I had purchased that I had split with her.

I placed either hand in my jacket pockets. The chatting of people reuniting as we exited rang in my ears. Then Bulma's voice cut through the windy day of outside:

"Why Hawaii? There are plenty of other places we could've gone to."

"True. But I was told to bring you to Hawaii." I wasn't happy with the decision. It was a vacation area - a place that could make several things go wrong very quick.

I thought back to a conversation I had had on the phone while on the flight. Arturo had said he'd meet up with me here, dressed as a casual traveler. I glanced around, just debating if he was actually inside when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I almost moved my arm up, but his other hand held mine.

"Augustine, old friend!" Arturo. His Russian accent gave him away like a sore thumb. He let go of me, still grinning. I glanced at Bulma. She seemed oblivious. I turned toward him, seeing his wide grin again. His eye patch stared at me with his other black eye. His onyx hair was still pulled back in its usual ponytail. He was dressed in a light blue button-up and black slacks. The scars on his left cheek and over his right eye - the one with an eye patch - seemed to be blaringly brighter from the sunlight. "Is this your sweetheart?" I heard him hesitate only slightly before deciding our role. I smiled warmly.

"You're right." I looked back at Bulma who looked hesitant but alert.

"Come, come! Let's do a bit of shopping and dine, shall we? Your poklonnik looks a tad unspoiled." He gave a cheery wink at her, but only I could really tell it was a wink. "A beautiful lover requires the utmost attention and riches."

I gawked at him. He gave me a serious look before pulling his polite face back on. I quickly picked myself back up. "Of course."

"We can take my vehicle. Do you mind, Mrs. Bulma?" I watched her shake her head.

"May I ask Augustine a question first? It's important." She smiled politely.

"Of course. I shall be waiting at my car." He held his hand up in a still wave before striding back to his blue Mustang waiting at the curb.

Bulma latched onto my collar, pulling me to the side much more forcefully than I had assumed she would. Her grip was almost like steel - she was pissed.

She stopped underneath a short palm tree. Shade covered her face, but the blue in her eyes still glowed with anger. "Lovers?! Couldn't you have corrected him?" She exhaled. "Oh, I get it. He's one of your associates."

I hesitated only for a moment. I chuckled with fake nervousness. "Ah, no, unfortunately not. I'm afraid you're being much too paranoid. I merely called in advance to let him know we'd be in the state. I didn't expect him to meet us here." I sighed. "The hotel reservations are worthless now."

"Why would we stay at a hotel?!"

"Where else would we stay?" I blinked. "I did NOT intend for something like tha-"

"Oh, whatever! I still wanna know the FULL story of why I'm being kidnapped-"

"Shush! You'll be heard!" I glanced to only my right for a few seconds, not seeing anyone that walked past glance at us. I sigh. The faint chatter of other people and couples covered the conversation better than I had hoped.

"That's the whole point, isn't it?! I want to be heard! To get away from you!" She glared her canines at me. She shoved past me before I latched onto her wrist. I pulled her back, pulling her behind the tree to be covered from most lingering eyes.

I pressed her arm against the tree. That was all that was needed to see a small flicker of fear in her eyes. But it was quickly burned away by her anger.

"I can still talk, idiot-"

 _ **...**_

"Behind a tree? Very classy," the Russian laughed. My head was against the table, my frosty drink in front of me. "I never expected you for a public man, Augustine."

"I'm not." It came out soupy and weak. The image flashed through my head for the millionth time. I slammed my head on the table, but not too hard to attract attention.

"What is your take on this, Bulma?"

" _My take?!_ " She was almost shouting. "I would consider it rape!"

"It was just a _KISS_." I glared at her from the glass surface. "I had to! You wouldn't shut up!"

" _And?!_ That is the _WORST thing_ you can do to a woman!" She crossed her arms over her new sun dress. It was light orange, the end of the skirt fading to a soft yellow. She looked much better after a shower, the fatigue gone. Her still-damp hair was as it was before, except her bangs were pulled to the side with a orange lotus clip.

I rolled my eyes and sat up, taking a drink. I swallowed the urge to complain. It was much too citrusy. Still, I didn't pay for it.

"We're supposed to be a couple," I said warningly. "Why would you say a kiss is terrible? People were looking."

"Because it's _YOU_." Her red-painted lips formed a frown. "We're breaking up."

"You can drop the rouse now. It really is amusing, but I don't think anyone would want to see a shabby excuse for a play any longer if this were in a theater." My boss grinned innocently. "Anyway, how do you like your drink? Did the shower help?"

"Er...yes, it did help. And the drink is fantastic."

"Would you like to stay at my place while you are on your trip?"

I glared at him. His lone eye only glanced at me before he smiled to the heiress.

"Er...Augustine made hotel reservations."

I opened my mouth to speak an excuse as to why there were actually no reservations, but Arturo beat me to it. "You want to be in the same bed as him? I sincerely doubt he booked two rooms."

Bulma's eyes widened. She glanced at me with hateful eyes. "I would love to stay. There is no way I'd stay with him."

He grinned. "Splendid! I'm sure you'll enjoy Hawaii even more than you have." He gave another wink. Bulma still didn't catch it.

 _ **...**_

In front of us was a house that looked over the sea. It wasn't too far from the water in terms of height - about the height of a person. It was two stories with a back patio. It was painted a dark blue, the windows covered with curtains.

"It looks kinda scary," Bulma said. "This is not the beach house I imagined."

Arturo only grinned. "No, no, this isn't my beach house. We are only stopping here to see a friend. I shall return. Augustine, would you accompany me?"

I glanced at Bulma who shared the same idea through her eyes. I hesitated.

"Don't worry. He doesn't bite." The look in his eye said differently. _Don't worry. I locked the doors. She isn't leaving._

I nodded. I pushed the car door shut, hearing a sharp click as it locked. I already knew how his car worked. She wasn't getting out.

I followed Arturo, not missing a beat. The house looked empty other than a warm yellow light that shone through the curtains on the bottom floor to the left. The window had a small crack in it.

"Not very well kept, is it?" I couldn't help but stare at that chip in the glass. "A broken window."

Kierkov stopped. He faced me with a sly grin on his face. "No, no, my faithful employee. It isn't broken. A violent murder occurred here. Many, I should say. This friend of ours likes to keep the...scars."

 _ **...**_

A chill crept through the window's hole. It still bothered me. It seemed to be perfect, as if cut by someone. But at the same time, it looked like someone threw a rock in.

The light shining through resulted from an antique lamp. There was no lampshade on it, making dark spots dance around my vision each time I looked around once I looked at it.

A tall-backed living chair faced away from us. A dark brown stain covered the top left corner of its floral print. A chill went up my spine.

This friend of ours likes to keep the...scars.

"Are you there, old man?" I looked at Arturo with wide eyes. "I'm not here to waste my time. And your lamp is on."

"Eh? I didn't expect any visitors. Whatcha want, kid?" A strong New York accent. Way out of place here in Hawaii.

"I've come to introduce Augustine Diez. And to inform you of your role in our operation. You got the email, yes?"

"Yeah, I did." The familiar sound of a lighter lighting a cigarette or cigar sounded. A waft of sweet smoke carried through the room. Definitely cigar. "And whaddaya think I want with a rookie?"

I swallowed the urge to counter the term. Arturo smiled, even though the chair faced away from him. "He's not a rookie, Blue. He's one of my best men."

A laugh emerged from the chair. "I hope you know that playing with forks isn't dangerous!"

The smile tightened for the killer. "Blue. It's time to put that aside."

The chair turned. "Then stop callin' me 'Blue'. It's degrading." There sat a well-set man with a square jaw. In his fingers rested the cigar that was still sending a scent through the room. His hair was a dark grey, the hair at his temples a much lighter, aged ash. His hazel eyes looked at me with skepticism.

Silence went through the room as he observed me. The lamplight gave him a warm light that made him look murderous. "He's not very...built, is he?"

"Speed," Arturo said. "The more muscle you have, the slower you are."

"Mm...but he doesn't have as much power behind the knife without it."

"His precision is dead on," Arturo said, crossing his arms. Well, he was exaggerating a bit. I've missed before.

"That so? Eh. I can't see it. You tend to lose accuracy the taller you are. And he's pretty tall."

"Can we please stop discussing as if I'm an animal being showed?" I asked. I could feel the annoyance ticking at me.

"But you're not, kid." He shook his head. "Similes. Never understood 'em." He smirked. "Call me Sirius, Beckinson, Beck, or Boss B. Take your pick."

"Sirius Beckinson?" I blinked. "That sounds an awful lot like-"

"Yeah, yeah, _avada kadavra_ to you too." His smirk disappeared. He took a puff of the cigar. "Do you smoke?"

I nod.

"Cigars or cigarettes?"

"Cigarettes."

"Married?"

"Divorced."

He clicked his tongue with dissatisfaction. "Kids?"

"One."

"Mm...not a good decision." He shook his head as he spoke. "Married before or after you became an assassin?"

"After."

"Kid conceived after, then?"

I nod.

"Why'd you become an assassin?"

I hesitated. I never really had an answer for it.

He was silent for a few moments. "What, for sport?"

It was my turn to shake my head. "No. I guess I had raw feelings for Bulma Briefs."

He regarded me with newfound interest. "What'd she do to you?"

"Classified."

"What, clammin' up on me now?" He grimaced. He extinguished the cigar. "Eh, it's whatever. That's all I really needed to know." He paused. "Don't tell others about that detached family of yours, though."

I nod. "I don't."

"Good. You're not as much of an idiot as I took you for." He looked to Arturo. "Get him to quit smoking if you want him around for a while."

"Of course." He smiled. "Though the hypocrisy is not lost on me."

"Now. My role?" He stood from the chair with the brown stain on it and crossed his arms. I glanced at the hole in the window. Outside was already growing darker. Not too dark, though.

"You wanted to be apart of this, correct? Well, we need you to be our container for the heiress. Not for long, of course." Arturo stopped and looked at me. A smile that a jokester would pull tugged at his lips. "How about you go wait upstairs? This'll take a bit."

"I'm not a child," I said.

"No, you're not, but you saw that window at the second floor. Keep a watch on Bulma."

"Why not at that window?" I gestured to the one with the hole in it. "And why not the others?"

"Because Sirius doesn't like his house's scars messed with." He smiled again. "Just run upstairs, alright?"

I sighed but nodded. I stopped on the last step, hearing a word I didn't think I'd hear in this life at this moment.

" _...torture..._ " After that I heard them stop. Heavy steps started coming my way. I was already up the stairs when Sirius poked his head up the stairs. Checking for an unintentionally-eavesdropping assassin, most likely.

 _ **...**_

Almost a full hour passed before I could come back down. I was thankful - too many creepy noises came from upstairs. Something like footsteps kept coming up behind me. A whisper occasionally came from a bathroom to the right of me; it was the whisper of a little girl. Then there was the constant feeling of nails wanting to rake down my back, only lightly gliding down my jacket. I am a skeptic on ghosts, but this made me rethink things. It's different when you're alone upstairs - I checked for pets or open windows - and you're hearing whispers and feeling nails down your jacket.

As soon as I heard Arturo call me back down, I took the steps two at a time.

"You _lied_!" I exclaimed. "There was no window! And you both kept checking to see if I were coming down or listening, so I was stuck upstairs! What the hell was that even for?!"

Arturo looked at me with innocence before bursting into a fit of laughs and giggles. "I forgot that this place is haunted!" He stopped to try and catch his breath, only to start laughing again. "You look like you pissed your pants! Oh my God, that is hilarious!" A good minute or two passed before he finally calmed down.

"Ah...Augustine, you are _priceless_! I never thought I'd laugh as hard as I did!" He wiped a tear away before grinning. "Wanna hear the story?"

"No, no I don't. Can we just leave? I'm worried Bulma might have gotten out of the car." I glanced at Sirius. I followed his gaze to the hole in the window. It seemed more jagged and new. In fact, there was another crack to either side, as if it were smiling in amusement.

To be blunt, I didn't want to deal with that anymore. I asked no explanations, didn't say goodbye, just up and left.

...

"You guys took forever." The hum of the engine didn't overwhelm her voice, unfortunately. For the past five minutes of driving, she's been complaining. Never shutting her mouth. Not once.

"It was a long conversation." Arturo smiled pleasantly into the rearview mirror.

"It's _sundown_!" She groaned. "I am starving. Like, I haven't eaten in for _ever_. Can we stop somewhere? Like, somewhere nice?"

Both Arturo and I glanced at each other. In a way, it was like her last meal. We both knew where this woman's life was going. The same direction as it had originally been when I kidnapped her.

Then my phone went off. "Hmm?" I assumed it was someone from work or Desmond. But no, I was very much wrong.

"This is Diez, right?" It was a brusque voice. He wasn't playing games, whoever it was. He spoke as if he were above everyone. It was a voice I remember the description of.

I smiled to myself. "One moment." Arturo was holding out a pair of ear buds he had in his pocket. I plugged them in and placed one in my left, Arturo his right. "Yes, this is Diez. How did you manage to receive my number?"

"Ways. _Now where the fuck is my wife?_ "

"Nearby. Do you need directions?" Of course, that sentence made zero sense to the conversation. And that was the plan so Bulma wouldn't catch on.

"Why the hell would I need directions? Oh, are you willing to offer your location? You're pitiful." I heard him laugh. It was cold.

"No, not quite. Just off the avenue. You're quite close, however."

"Enough with the bullshit, you British son of a _bitch_."

"My mother is not a bitch, sir. Please refrain from cursing, alright? I promise it isn't far."

I glanced to Arturo. A hand was over his mouth. He was grinning as if he was about to laugh. I smiled.

"You realize I can track you, right? I'd stop playing this _fucking game_ before you get ripped to shreds like the garbage you are."

I laughed for the act. "Yes, I know, quite difficult. I've been there. I'll have you know that there is a counter for that."

"A counter for some pizza delivery act or for my tracking?"

"Latter. Anyway, it was very pleasant speaking with you, sir. I hope you find what you're looking for." I hang up before he says anything else. I tug the earbud out from Arturo's ear and the other from mine. I hand them back to my boss.

"That was interesting."

"I agree. Such a troublesome tourist. I thought Hawaii was calming."

"Well, you run into a few knuckleheads once in a blue moon."

"Just focus on your driving," I say. "I don't want to lose my other arm from another driving stunt."

 ** _..._**

Turns out we did end up at Arturo's house, finally. But that was after an hour of his terrible driving. Turns out he has a horrid sense of direction that would make a broken compass feel like an Olympian.

"How did you get to the creepy house, then?!" Bulma demanded as she stepped in the house. We all stopped in the living room.

"Easy. I had Google Maps memorized before the drive. But I did miss a few turns. You both just didn't notice."

Bulma rolled her eyes. Arturo cocked a brow.

"I have a question," Arturo said, "why do you not struggle to escape like someone else would? You are kidnapped, you know."

"You just want information, right? Grand blueprint of the century? Maybe a billion dollars to get you off my back?"

Arturo didn't reply immediately. He disappeared into another room - the kitchen - that was decorated in a majority of burnished wood. I glanced in, seeing him pick up a can of what looked like soda out of his fridge. I returned my attention to Bulma, who was now sitting on a plush leather sofa with a colorful rug underneath it. Next to it on the wall was a collection of knives in a glass case, each pinned to be horizontal. A dresser sat across it, behind that a large window with heavy curtains in covering it. I wasn't quite sure who's eyes it was keeping out; his house house was in a relatively empty piece of terrain.

Arturo may be a terrible navigator, slightly creepy at times, and a drunkard, but he did live quite nicely. At least he didn't hoard all his cash. It gets trickled down considerably down the ladder. After all, I probably wouldn't have my Mustang if he kept all his cash.

"Who do you think will win the presidential campaign and this year?" The heiress kept her eyes to the floor. She didn't look happy.

"Hmm. I'm not fairly interested, so I don't speak out of opinion. A lot of people are going towards Trump and Clinton. I think some other guy, too-"

"Sanders."

"Right," I replied. "What topic are avoiding?"

It was her turn to be silent. Her eyes never left the floor. Her bangs lightly dusted over her eyes. "I don't want to be here. Why are you not asking for ransom? Why aren't you...hurting me? Threatening to hurt my family?"

I didn't respond immediately. I honestly didn't quite care for the rest of her family. If it were up to me, she would be dead right now...but that isn't quite right, either. I was the one who decided to kidnap her. "Would you prefer we do that?"

"No," she said quickly but sternly. "I...I'm just thinking that you both don't know what you're doing. This isn't a real kidnapping. You've gone out places with your captive, places where people could see me. The news will have broadcasted my disappearance. It won't be so easy for you if this keeps on-"

Heavy footsteps sound from the kitchen. I can see through the doorway, though small at my angle, that Arturo had returned from wherever he had gone. He walks into the room we were in, his hair still up but his clothes changed into more comfortable jeans and a plaid red shirt.

"Plaid not my thing?" He asked, his Russian accent sounding a bit thicker. "Ha. I didn't really think so myself."

I say nothing. But he continues: "Either way, I have figured out what I wanted from you." He glances at me. He didn't want anything from the president of Capsule Corp. of course, but I was the one who brought her here.

"Fine. Name it. If you get it, do I get to go home?"

"Hm. I'm not going to name it to you. That happens in movies and the guy, me, is downtrodden by the captor wearing a wire that suddenly found on a shelf that they magically tuned to their savior. That savior then kills or spares me, yada, yada. Anyway...what I want is something you cannot give me. Not on your person, in any case."

Horror flashes over her face. "You wouldn't take my family-"

"No, no, be smart, Mrs. Briefs. What would I need with your family?"

"Then what? I don't have cash on me."

"If you haven't noticed by your surroundings, I'm doing fine with my bank account."

She groans, standing from the couch. "Then WHAT, dammit?!"

"Calm down, okay? I'm not planning to hurt you. Killer I may be, I'm not keen on murdering people I can have a benefit out of."

"So then you don't have a reason of killing me?"

"No. But I can always get on without your benefits. Just keep that in mind if you decide to misbehave."

"Then what do you plan to do with her?" I ask. I cross my arms over my chest.

He makes eye contact with me and a sly smirk crosses his features. "Just remember I'm not a normal man, Augustine."

I raise one brow in confusion, but he gives no further indication as to what he means. He continues to speak. "You both should probably get some rest. We have a long day tomorrow." He gives Bulma a meaningful glance. "You can try to leave if you'd like."

Then he leaves the room, taking his ponytail down and untying his eye patch with his back to us. Then I look at Bulma. She looks shaken and upset.

"I'm so _sick_ of this. I'm sick of...you _toying_ with me. I already said I'd give you anything you wanted. Why is this still going on? What can I not give him that I can't wire to him?" Her voice cracks and her face is in her hands. "I just want to see my family...I _need_ to see them. I don't want them to stress out...I want to be there for them...not here, _stuck in this house and treated like a guest as if it's a joke!_ " She throws her hands up and tears are streaming down her face.

"Calm down, it'll be over soon-"

" _And why the fuck do you care?!_ You're the one who got me into this mess in the first place!" She cries. " _You're_ the one who put me on that _god damn plane, you're_ the one who did all this...this _bullshit!_ " She stands, her hands balled together. "I've tried every opportunity to get out, even when you weren't looking. You don't get how _stressful_ this is for me." She takes a step toward me, wiping her tears and replacing them with the coldest glare I've seen from her. A hand hovers over my pocket, tensed to defend myself.

"And he says I can't escape. But you can." She takes another step. I take one back. "I'm getting out of here and going to the cops. No, I'm going home and telling my husband where he is. And all I need to do..." She takes a much bigger advance, making me take the knife out in warning. "I don't care what you do," she says, almost in a hiss. "I've seen kidnap movies. _I'm not dealing with this shit anymore!_ "

She lunges at me, making me duck back. I hit against the wall, seeing her determination again. The heiress manages to tackle me as I turn to move from the wall, her weight surprisingly slamming me down to the rug. She raises a hand, but I kick her in the stomach before she can do anything. I quickly stand, regaining my posture before she can gain wind again. She does, and she attempts to trip me from where she stands on the floor. I step over her attempt, taking a step back.

"What are you trying to do?" I ask. She doesn't answer. Instead she stands and jumps at me, making me step back again, but I trip over the coffee table, landing on it before she tackles me off it.

"Where do you keep your goddamn syringes?!" She exclaim, glancing over my jacket. My eyes widen in surprise before I grab her by her throat and slam her to the floor next to me, forcing her down. I hear her wince, but she's quick to think. I feel her kick me where a man shouldn't be kicked, making me lose my grip and groan.

Then she stands, pulling me towards her by my jacket. _"Where. Are. The. Syringes?"_

I make a mental note to myself to inject both of us after this business. I notice the emptiness in my hand where the knife was, then I see it next to me. I keep eye contact. "Not on me," I reply through gritted teeth.

" _Bullshit_."

"Not bullshit."

"Then where are they if not on you?" Her grip tightens on my jacket.

"I'm not telling you," I say, then grabbing the knife and sinking it into her thigh, going through the fabric of her sun dress. She screams, crumbling to the floor and pressing a hand over the stab.

I fish out the packet of small metal squares and shaking out two. I press the edge of one against my vein, feeling it cut against into the skin and blood bead out slightly. I press one long end into the vein and see the metal square lose a bit of color, the injection leaving the square.

I look up and see Bulma is almost about to stab me in the chest, her arm up and prepared to do a downward stab. I quickly kick her in the chest, glad that she did go down when I stabbed her, and she falls back and hits the part under the couch under the cushion. She winces, and I can see she hit her head against the inner framework of the upholstery. It wasn't a nice blow, either. I glance around for the knife and pack of syringe squares, taking her arm while she was still dazed and making a small cut in her inner wrist. I pocket the bloody knife and press my right hand over her stab wound and the other pressing the green liquid into her system.

I stand and quickly walk to the bathroom on this floor, passing the kitchen and a cozy-looking study. I whip open the medicine cabinet behind the mirror and take out the ace bandages, walking back with my lower regions still aching. As soon as I step out, I hear a faint cracking somewhere else in the house. It was either upstairs where Arturo was or in the living room. But Bulma was too dazed to do anything good. Especially with a stab wound in her leg.

I come back and she's not in the room. Or at least, she's not in my range of vision. I tread carefully, glancing at the small but noticeable blood stain on the floor from when I stabbed her. I glance to my left, in the direction of the couch, and the glass on the case of knives is cracked and broken. One of them are gone.

I look out the covered window, but even through the curtain I can tell it's late at night and pouring rain. The rain will make it hard to hear her approach...and that was definitely not a good thing in this situation. I take out the knife again.

"You wouldn't kill me." Her body is pressed against mine, a hand gripping an ornate knife. The blade is itching to tear through my neck and make more bloodstains on the carpet. "You have a boss who wants to benefit from me."

My heart is pounding in my chest. Cornered by a young woman was not something I predicted when I joined this company. I swallow. The blade digs in. "As always, you're right."

"And I'm not putting the knife down, so don't tell me to." She presses the knife further against my skin, making me wince as the blade burns through the skin and make spots of blood slide down my skin.

I twist the knife in my hand.

"You either let me go now and tell your boss you fucked up or I slit your throat and I go out myself."

"Can't," I manage to murmur.

"Why the hell not?"

I shake my head. She was too short for me to head-butt. Too quick for me to elbow. She's probably predicted I'll kick her since I've done it twice now. I grip the knife again.

"I'll figure it out. If it's electrified or something crazy like that, I can hack it. I'm leaving, whether or not you're breathing. Now put the knife down. Or you get the blade through your neck."

I shake my head again. I couldn't afford to let this...bitch leave the house. She presses the knife against my flesh, burying it deeper, making me wince again, louder this time. I slowly bring my arm out, feeling her tense to cut through my flesh just as I force the blade back against her, feeling it tear through flesh. The knife against my throat slices through muscle and I tear it away as she loses her grip. I whip around, a hand to my throat as I see just how much I've fucked up.

Blood is pouring down her chest. She coughs, making more appear and drip down her chin. It was a deep stab - enough to be fatal. She places both hands over the wound, hoping to staunch the bleeding. I keep a hand over my neck just as she slumps over and passes out, blood still pumping out and staining her orange sundress with shades of red, mimicking the sunset.

Her sun was setting.

 _ **...**_


	4. Chapter 3

A jolt of pain hits me, sending signals to my brain to back away; I do. Then a tan hand reaches forward and pulls me back by the shoulder, forcing me to stay still, the other hand forcing my chin up. A wince releases from me at the movement and pain from the wound being opened further.

"For the third time," an accent hisses with authority, "stay still. You're being ridiculous. Others don't behave this way."

"I don't exactly see a medical degree on your wall," I growl, unable to glare at him because of the angle my head was at, forcing me to only stab at the ceiling with my eyes.

I heard a chuckle. "True. But that doesn't give you an excuse to act like a child."

I roll my eyes despite the fact that he can't see it. Then cold presses against my skin again, making me jump at the sudden stab of pain. The grip on my shoulder strengthened, but the Russian said nothing. He continued to dab the cut on my neck without a care to my nervous system and my brain screaming at me to back up. I glanced to my right to the leather couch where the bloodstained sun dress laid. I couldn't see much due to my having to stay still, but the cerulean contrast was enough to let me know it was the woman who attempted to end my life.

"You still haven't explained why I'm cleaning your wound."

I instinctively glanced down, only causing an eye strain.  
"Because you're a kind-hearted soul," I said sarcastically. He stopped, and I could imagine- no _feel_ \- the look that read cut the shit. "Kind of a long story. Where were you, anyway, when all this happened?"

The assassin hummed thoughtfully, not ceasing in his movements of dabbing alcohol on my already-used-to-it wound. "Let's see...this was around midnight, you said? Almost one? I was in the parlor watching Supernatural."

"Why were you watching a show? You left me with her on purpose, didn't you? To see how we would react to each other?"

He laughed. "No, this isn't a novel or short story with a seedy-yet-mysterious character named Arturo Nikolai Kierkov. I just left because I forgot about the both of you."  
"You forgot about our captive? That's very unprofessional."

The application of alcohol ceased and was replaced by the sound of a bandage being torn open. "Yes, maybe. But even though I know you hate Mrs. Briefs with every essence of your being, I won't test it. You'd end up killing her - oh, wait, you already almost did." Another laugh. I rolled my eyes.

"You're a jackass."

"Language."

"Like you care, you Russian _prick_ ," I growled.

He slid the bandage on my skin, pressing against it to make sure it stuck before allowing me to move my head down. I finally saw his dark black eyes trained on my hazel ones. "No, not really. But you usually do, so you're a hypocrite."

"Hypocrite?" I chuckled. "Hypocrisy is not something to describe me with."

"Maybe. But you're lecturing me about being a dreadful captor when you yourself have put her closer to death than I ever could." He glanced at the faintly breathing form of the heiress, the bloodstains still in her dress.

"You put stitches in correctly, right?"

"Of course. I don't want her bleeding out."

"Do you think it was a fatal blow?" I didn't move my eyes from her. Even if we were both on the floor a little a ways from Bulma, I could see her complexion adopted a much paler hue, most likely from the loss of blood.

"Oh yeah." Arturo shifted and slid the hair tie out, letting his onyx hair fall to his shoulders. He ran a hand through it, smoothing it. "But she won't die. Not with stitches and cloth to staunch the bleeding. She'll be alright. Or as you British say, "right as rain"."

I stood, seeing the dark colors in her dress again. "Goodnight, Arturo."

"Goodnight. I'll keep first watch."

I paused. I didn't quite believe Bulma needed a watch; "watch turns" are only for war or the apocalypse. This wasn't either one of those. "Before I go to bed...I need an answer." I turned toward the assassin.

"Well?" He said after noticing my hesitation.

I pressed my teeth together, the habit of grinding on a cigarette in anxiety or frustration. It was a better habit than drinking or whoring around. Hell, I would take chewing a cigarette over many other things. I would take that as a habit instead of attempting to find closure on a topic I'd heard from a particularly scary haunted house.

"Are you going to torture Bulma? Make her feel pain at all?"

Even if I was a couple paces away from the older gentleman, I could feel the intensity inside those coal-coloured eyes. "Goodnight, Augustine." I opened my mouth to reply, but my brain said "no".

I watched him leave the room swiftly, seeing his hands starting to move up and untie his eye patch. He was gone before it fell. I clenched my fists, a grimace painting over my lips. I walked past the CEO I hated, despised, but also felt sympathy for.

From there I left to the room I was given, not getting any sleep from the thought of screams, tears, and begging for a break from pain. It began to hurt - but maybe it hurt because I didn't have an answer yet...or maybe it hurt because I was the one who brought her here. Should I have killed her as she lay peacefully breathing instead of dragging her to the point of laboured breathing?

I didn't have to be woken up two hours prior to these thoughts. I was already awake. Then, sitting next to Bulma, the woman who I accidentally stabbed and needed to be hospitalized, I had the first argument with myself since the junior year of high school.

...

Warmth woke me up. I felt sunlight pressing itself on my cheek, shining in my eyes once I opened them. What also woke me up was tentative tapping on my cheek. I glanced groggily to my left, seeing a pale hand still on my shoulder. I turned around and saw icy cerulean eyes.

Well. As icy as they were capable of being. There was weakness in them. But nonetheless, the heiress still didn't like me. "Hmm?" I had only just woken up, and laying against a leather couch with a woman who attempted to kill me didn't exactly massage my back for me.

"Where's the other one?" Her voice was stronger than the rest of her.

"Dunno." I folded my arms on top of my knees, laying my face on top of them, planning to go back to sleep.

"Hey." She tugged - attempted to rip, I should say - my hair, pulling my head up.

"What?!" I pulled her hand away. "That wasn't necessary!"

"I want answers," she murmured.

"I just woke up. How am I supposed to know where he is?"

Bulma gave me a hard glare. "Then find out." I rolled my eyes and resumed attempting to sleep.

"Get up and do it yourself."

"I thought you considered yourself a gentleman."

"I do." I was only half-listening at this point. I heard her say something along the lines of being formidable and hating me, but by then I was out like a light.

...

A stinging sensation flooded my cheek. I snapped awake, my senses alerting me to reach for my knife on my right side. I hardly caught a glimpse before I was tugged forward by my jacket and my arm was forced down. My vision finally adjusted to the sudden zoom in to a dark eye.

" _Where the fuck did she go?!"_ Arturo shouted, his Russian thicker than ever. _"How did you manage to fall asleep?!"_

"Let go!" I shouted back. He pushed me forward, making my already aching back hit the framework in the couch. "Why are you freaking out?! I thought we were at a loss-"

"There's someone else who wants her," he managed to say in a calmer sound. Then the hysteria returned. "Where is she?! _Answer_ , dammit!"

He advanced on me, his hands curled into menacing fists. There was a quake in them, something that sent a chill down my spinal column. His eye was dark and his breathing was irregular and desperate. "I don't know-"

The first punch landed at my temple. I hesitated from the pain, throbbing coursing through my skull. Then I quickly got up, making my head spin. "Calm down, Arturo. We can find her. You don't have to beat it out of me-"

"But you fucking _let_ her get away!" He shouted, almost pouncing on me. I glanced at his hands, seeing he hadn't reached for knives yet. But his eye was on my throat with the bandage he applied less than twelve hours before. "You don't understand how fucked I am now." His hand was hovering over his right pocket. I could see in his lone eye that maybe a shred of sense remained. Whatever the deal was and whoever the deal was with, I wasn't allowed in the equation. I messed something up, hadn't I? Well, of course. I didn't get slapped awake for nothing. But what?

He just said it, idiot, a voice said within me. You messed up a promise of his because Bulma's nowhere to be seen. What are you going to do about it?

Not too sure, I replied inwardly. "You don't have to resort to violence, Arturo. We can find her. She had an almost fatal wound, there's no way she could have gotten far-"

He bolted forward into the air to tackle me, his dagger flying out of his pocket with expertise I was still learning. I ducked, seeing him twist and dig the dagger into my back as he grabbed my shoulder and forced me to the floor, my chin banging the hardwood. I felt the blade dig into my flesh, a burning sensation tearing through my flesh. I could feel my heart beating hard on the wood, some of the blood it was pumping leaving by the entry just applied to my back. I heard him getting up on top of me. I tore the dagger out, the serrated edge making more blood tear out with it. Tears stung at my eyes, but I ignored them as best I could. I had a pissed off assassin behind me, and I could bet my blue mustang that he had more than just this one. He wouldn't give a blade over to become weaponless...so I couldn't afford to focus on the pain and cry over it.

I heard the familiar slide of a blade being removed. My back was still burning, hot fluid running down my back. I just had to hope and pray that he didn't strike anything major. And if he did...then I hope he regrets it later. His arm lashed forward, gripping my bicep in preparation to disembowel me or whatever fatality he wished upon me-

The door clicked open. I heard Arturo slide the blade back in its place. On my arm, I felt his hand begin to tremble, the previous expanse of strength releasing with the adrenaline.

"How did you get in my ho-"

"Shush." The voice was relatively young, no more than late 20s. I pushed my torso up, feeling Arturo stand and free his weight off of me. As he did so, the burn in back felt more like scalding. As I began to sit up, I saw alligator skin shoes, new from the look of the unworn leather. It made me think back to a time when I was younger, seeing an albino alligator in the zoo for the first time. I was excited then - now, seeing the olive green skin, I felt repulsed and a creep crawling up my spine.

The man had rough blonde hair, the colour of russet. His fair-skinned face was angled in a pixie-ish way, a small chin and eyes the shape of almonds. His eyes were oddly green, but part of me thought they were contacts. Those eyes flicked between the both of us. His small hands smoothed the front of his suede suit, an expensive-looking piece of clothing for such a small visit.

"I came here for the inventor, not the both of you stabbing each other. If I wanted to see that, I would have scheduled it over a tequila in front of a golden mansion. Now - where is she?"

Arturo's complexion was pale, an odd contrast to his usually dark tan. His light pink ribbons of scars looked like a bright red in contrast to his pallor colour. He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. Then he tried again - he succeeded this time. "I'm not sure at the moment."

"Not sure? What the _f-_ what happened?"

His hands twisted together, his fake green eyes the same hue as his shoes darkening. Arturo's black eyes stole to me, empty hate in them. "He let her go."

The stranger's hands twisted again. "Let her go?"

"Do you always repeat what people say?" I asked, harsher than I had wanted. My back was on fire, feeling like someone was holding a hot coal from the furnace on my flesh. From the long duration it's taking to stop bleeding, I guessed I wasn't too lucky on where he stabbed me.

Alligator-Shoes' lips thinned to a line cut into his flesh. It made me think of Insomnia's Ralph's confrontation with Atropos - nowhere near beautiful cuts into his flesh. Insomnia had been the only Stephen King book I had decided to read - afterwards, I'd stopped reading. This made me want to pick it back up again.

He ignored my stab at his personality, not so much as carrying for my presence, much less what I had to say. "How was she released?"

"I don't know."

"You don't kn-" He stopped himself, a glance at me and a check in his speech until he resumed: "What do you know, then?"

"Er...he was the last one with her. She was pretty pissed at him previously, so-"

"She hasn't fled." Alligator-Shoes stared at Arturo with the intensity of a starved crocodile first seeing food after several years. "She would have killed him and you to ensure her escape. She's not an idiot - she knows you'd track her down."

He began walking to the door. "I'll be back at two to collect." He spoke with the simplicity of a customer's announcement of returning for their dry cleaning. He even waved his hand back carelessly as he walked out the door.

Colour seemed to return to Arturo quicker than lightning. "That stupid woman...wanna-be."

"Bulma is a wanna-be? Of what?" I asked, debating whether or not he still had surgical thread to stitch up the stab he'd given.

"No. Not her. The one that just walked out." He growled. "Normally I don't care for them, but this one is different...stupid transgender," he hissed.

"Transgender?" I thought back to his thin, pointed face and almond eyes and small hands. "Do you have a thing against them?"

He sighed aggressively. "No. Just that one. And not the fact that he's trans. Just...him." He shook his head. "Go get the surgical thread - it's in the medicinal cabinet."

"Right...for the stab wound you gave me?" I replied bitterly. I felt the sting return as the adrenaline rush bubbled away. He didn't reply. His fingers tapped on his thigh, a tempo the speed of a fast-pacing heart. He smoothed the front of his white button-down, exhaling slowly.

"His name is Frederic Dilion...previously Frannie Belter. He's in a different syndicate of crime here in Japan. He's with the type of syndicate that you only see in video games. The kind that use any kind of brute force you can imagine to get what they want."

I felt a chill ride up my spine. Thoughts of torture and punishment crossed my mind as ways of punishment. Cold faces ignoring cries of pain and begging of mercy, dried blood from previous victims on the floor. A man with rippling muscles standing next to a mad scientist with streaks of blood on his face. The mad scientist holds a pair of pliers, flexing them menacingly at their victim that will soon donate more blood to the blood bank on the floor underneath them-

"-they want?" His voice sounded faraway for a moment, growing in volume like a stereo being turned up. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his black slacks, his hair not combed nor up in his usual ponytail. His shirt was mussed, less than half of his shirt buttoned. He must have been panicking before he approached me this morning. He shook his head, brushing his hair over his shoulder. "Fuck it. Stop standing there and get the thread, unless you want to bleed out on cherry wood."

...

We were back on the carpet together, his hands sending sutures through my flesh. There was no morphine available to the wealthy man, but he did make a sad attempt to numb the feeling of a needle going through my flesh with oral numbing cream used for teeth ache.

"This isn't helping," I said through gritted teeth. "Who in their right mind uses oral numbing cream for stitching?"

"I dunno. But I'm not in my right mind most of the time, ha, ha." I could almost feel him smiling behind me at his reply. I rolled my eyes. "Just bear with me. It'll be over soon."

"Where did you get a serrated edge?"

"On my knife?"

"No," I murmured, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "your shirt. Yes, your knife, dimwit."

He stabbed the needle through, making me wince. "Quit that," he said. "Anyway, all assassins can get a serrated edge. Come now, don't tell me you've been using a smooth edge this entire time?" I didn't reply. "Oh my. Now who's the dimwit?"

Silence made itself at home next to and between us. There it was, the thought we'd been constantly skirting. Where Bulma was.

But neither of us mentioned it.

Filled with silence other than slight wincing from me, the room began to take on a brighter hue of sunlight as the afternoon sun came to see what all the commotion was about between the unlicensed doctor and the uninformed assassin. Finally, the kit that held the surgical needle and thread clicked shut, filled with its supplies once more.

I stood, though not without my back whining for the skin to relax. Arturo handed my shirt to me. "How often do you hit the gym nowadays? I imagined you'd be much more built than this. You only possess maybe a two-pack."

I sighed. "I'm not trying to be built. Large muscles kill speed and stealth. I'm just toning." I pulled the shirt on over my head, seeing it was a three-quarter sleeved one. I rose a brow at him. "Really? For my jacket? Three-quarter?"

"Don't wear your jacket, then. It's a thermal." He placed both hands in his pockets, a small whistling tune originating from him.

"The weather forecast said rain."

"Sometimes it's wrong!" He shouted from the kitchen, the sounds of him retrieving a bottle of alcohol coming from the kitchen. I glanced down the hall for any sign of Bulma as I went into the room he was in, pouring a tall glass of what appeared to be vodka with a lemon twist.

"Where do you think she could have gone?" I asked.

"Dunno. After some thinking, I guess I would be alright if we never got her. Yeah, I'll get a slap on the wrist, but nothing more."

"What about the syndicate Dilion is from? Wouldn't they torture you or something?" I disliked the too-casual tone from me on the topic of torture. It sent a chill up my spine, making the sensitive stitching cry, yet here I was, speaking as if it was the weather forecast that Arturo declared to be wrong.

"If they can catch me." He leaned against the counter after he bottle as put up, downing more than a half of his glass in one go. "And if they do, I can put up with it. They're not that bad when it comes to torture."

"A human cannot put up with torture," I said, thinking of Guantanamo Bay. No one there really puts up with the unfair treatment, now do they? I've never seen a picture them dancing outside, either.

"Yes, you're right...but a human can put up with it if they have a reason to."

"All tortured people have a reason to." I crossed my arms over my chest, my back still upset.

"Yes, but they don't know if they're going to get back to families, friends, whatever. Believing that they will is what gets a man through, what allows them to spit in the face of their torturer. Would you believe that you can make it out of Alcatraz?"

"No. It's maximum security, no one has ever gotten out-"

"Right." He smiled. "Because of that common myth, people don't think of a way to get out, they just focus on not dropping the soap. But three men managed to escape-" He paused, taking a drink, "-and they haven't been caught since. They believed they could make it out. So they didn't think of prison. They thought of life outside. They ignored the taunts and the cruelty because they had the belief they would leave. So, based on this, a man can, in fact, not feel a thing when being tortured."

I let the silence drift in for a moment, studying his scars and face. "You can say anything without ever experiencing it. If you were tortured, you would take all these words back."

"But I'm not." He finished his glass, moving to refill it. As he poured a smirk tugged at his lips. "I'm standing my ground."

"You were never a stubborn man, Arturo. Why stand ground on land you've never even touched?" He replaced the bottle of lemon-flavored vodka and took a sip from his glass.

"Because I have touched that ground. How do you think I know so much about the syndicate's torturing methods?" He tapped his eye patch. "I learned not to fuck with them a long time ago. Scars are proof, too."

I stood, my vocal chords refusing to produce a sound. I uncrossed my arms, watching him take a drink. The scar on his neck moved as he swallowed. "Then why fuck with them now?" I say, the curse tumbling out on its own.

"Because," he placed the glass down, the sun sending rainbow lights through the crystal, "I hate that transgender. And that woman is not going to make it through torture. I was never a man to believe in unreasoned punishment. The most she deserves is a painless bullet in the head." He paused. "I know I'm going to hell. But I would prefer not to be neighbors with the Devil so low in hell because I let a woman suffer pain she did not deserve."

And the conversation ended with the glass being washed out and placed back in the cupboard with a click.

...

She returned when we were in the midst of cooking breakfast.

Arturo was sautéing mushrooms in a pan, the oil spitting up at him with a sizzle. He grimaced. "I thought it'd be easier than this," he mumbled audibly.

"You're the one who wanted to try a British breakfast," I countered, preparing the tomatoes in their breading to fry. "If you don't want this to take so long, don't ask to try it again."

"I prefer bacon and eggs," he murmured.

"There is bacon and eggs. There's just more things added along with it."

"Why do you have so much for one meal? You're not going to have any room for lunch." The oil sizzled once more, sending a drop of hot liquid at his arm, making Arturo cry out in pain. "Fuck!" He quickly wiped it off with a dishtowel hanging on the oven handle. I glanced over my shoulder to see what caused the oil to spit.

"None of the oil should be open," I said with a sigh, turning back. "Why do you have that much oil in the pan? I thought you knew at least the basics of cooking."

"I do!" He insisted, moving the mushrooms around half-heartedly in a poor excuse of a sauté. "I've never had to fucking sauté anything before, though!"

"Watch your language." I left the tomatoes and moved him aside.

"How the fuck do you know how to sauté, then?" He asked, ignoring my words.

"That one Louvre assignment."

"What about it?"

"When I had to hide in the kitchen, some good-hearted sir thought I was a poor man, he decided to teach me how to cook a little so I could eat."

"Two questions. One, why did you look poor? Two, how does this man think you can sauté when you're poor?"

"One, I had just gotten out of dirty scuffle and I was pretty beaten. Two, he's just not very bright. Heart's in the right place, but not much a scholar."

Arturo remained silent. Small chatting went on for a good fifteen minutes, mushrooms and tomatoes sautéed and fried in the meantime, as well as bacon laid in the pan. Just as the bacon was sizzling and getting crispy, the door opened and shut with a weak click. I glanced at the man next to me, seeing the same amount of surprise.

"No wonder Dilion got in," I said quietly. A knife was already turning in my hand. The same mental precaution was flickering in Arturo's eyes. He followed behind me. We didn't go immediately to the living room. Circling out the other way of the kitchen and down the hall put us in the position of being right behind them, able to slit their throat calmly.

Just as we reached the corner of the living room, Arturo ran forward, speed that could be matched with a tiger in human standards. My body told me to run after him and catch his collar - he was too loud. This wasn't stealth. Whoever this person was would hear him five feet away. Faintly I heard the click of a gun.

I sprinted after him, hearing the booming sound of a pistol discharging. My heart felt like a stone, dropping as fast as a bullet could bury itself in Arturo's chest. My sprint faltered, slowing and picking up again. Panic began to seize my throat as I heard the sound of a body falling to the floor. By the sound of it, it was heavy.

Did Arturo carry a gun? I couldn't push the thought back. After several years of education under criminal justice and forensics, logical question tended to bounce up out of habit. No, Arturo never carried a gun.

How heavy is he, my brain inquired. That I didn't know, but looking at him, the heavy thud could've been him. Probably was.

But where is the sound of a struggle? I stopped. There could be lack of a struggle if Arturo was shot dead, but what are the chances of the notorious Russian assassin being gunned down? He taught how to dodge bullets, so either this intruder was a brilliant marksman or Arturo messed up.

No, there's another option. There could be no fight at all. But why would the gun go off? They got scared? Unlikely, but not to be crossed off the list. I stopped running and stepped silently over the carpet. I heard a tinkle of glass fall to the floor, the sound of a small crystal glass hitting concrete nearby. They were right around the corner.

I readied my knife, then glanced over the corner. My eyes widened and a gasp was barely swallowed in my throat.

I took a step back, not sure how to handle such a situation. The scent of burning bacon followed me.

I pocketed the knife, walking out from behind the wall, stepping and crunching a shard of glass. Arturo had blood on his arms, but he was breathing. He wasn't what shocked me. It was the person laying on him.

Exhausted with a gun hanging out of hand lay the CEO who'd disappeared. She still wore the bloody sun dress. The warm colors no longer suited her overly pale complexion. Bulma was taking shallow breaths. There were multiple cuts on her, one bruise on her calf. Her ankle looked sprained. Tears hung in her eyelashes.

I exhaled, seeing Arturo smile. He opened his eye. "Hey. Scare you?" I nodded. "Nope, not hurt. Arm just a little cut from glass. She, however, is probably on an inch of her life."

"Do we take her to the hospital?" I asked as he began to sit up, glass dusting off his shirt. He shook his head and looked at the limp body in his arms.

"No. We still have to consider our freedom. And the syndicate we're against." He stood, carrying Bulma. Her head rested on his chest, her shallow breathing neither worsening or bettering.

"She's going to die, Arturo." I stared at him incredulously. "We can't just...care for her ourselves. Neither of us know how to deal with the stab wound, a sprained ankle, and multiple cuts in a way that would get her better quickly and with no pain."

"True. Wish I carried morphine." His lips teased a smile. "We'll do our best, then."

"Our branch has an infirmary. A great one. And so do all the others," I said, attempting to reason as he carried her upstairs, me following behind him as he listened. "Why not take her to one of those?"

"They're only in Japan. We don't have any actual buildings in other countries. We can't ask another syndicate because they don't know us. Just as we would frown upon helping another syndicate, they would frown on us." He opened a free room, the one next to mine, and set her on the bed. He opened the drawer and took out a plain t-shirt that showed Aerosmith and a pair of pajama shorts. He opened another drawer and took out a set of underwear. Each of these were in her relative size, aside from the shirt that was a size too big, most likely for comfort.

"You're going to undress her?" I said with shock. He shook his head.

"Nope. You are. I have to get more medical supplies. While I'm gone, get her changed. Before you do, though, get her to take four sleeping pills, for two reasons. First, she'll lash out if you're in the middle of changing her. And second, she needs to stay asleep to heal. Anyway...see ya."

"What?!" It came out more panicked than I would have liked, the sound Desmond would make if said to grope a woman - the sound of desperation to not do it. "But I can't do something that indecent! That would mean seeing a woman naked, gov- forget what I said after 'seeing a woman naked'!"

Arturo laughed. "Yeah, it does. You're blushing and your heavy accent is showing. If you get turned on, relieve yourself in-"

"I am NOT going to get turned on!" All of the "t"s were not said except for "turned". I groaned, thinking back to enunciation and pronunciation. "I will be mature about it." This time all of the "t"s were pronounced accordingly. I made a mental note to myself to control my temper a lot more strictly than I have been in the future. The assassin shrugged.

"'kay. See you. I'm gonna help myself to a slightly burnt breakfast. I'll save you some." He flashed two fingers behind him, symbolizing peace or victory. A few moments later the front door thudded shut. I ran a hand through my hair as I left to get the sleeping pills. What if I accidentally made her choke? What if she woke up when I was giving them to her?

Finding the pills were simple enough. Walking back and finding her awake was not. She was attempting to sit up. "No, lay back down," I said. She shook her head, still going. A spot of blood appeared at her chest. A stitch had come out. I rushed forward, pressing her back down. She winced.

"No, I'm leaving," she said weakly. "Fuck you and him."

"I need you take these pills." I still held them in my right hand as I held her down.

"You're trying to overdose me." It came out barely above a whisper.

"No, I'm not. They're morphine capsules." The lie came out quick and effortlessly.

"I thought you'd want me...to feel pain." Her voice faltered. I gently shook her, forcing consciousness on her.

"Stay awake. I do not want you to feel pain. After you take them, you can go to sleep, okay?"

"No. Fuck you."

I sighed. "We have an appointment at two...three, whatever. Why would I want you dead for that?"

Either genuine reason in my voice or weakness, she asked for water to take them with. She took all four without question. No more than a minute later, she was asleep. I sighed. Now the harder part.

Undressing her was relatively easy. I took extra precautions to clean her wounds, but it wasn't comfortable with her nude body open. I forced myself only to focus on cleaning the wound, mending the stitch, and dressing her once more. Only once did I feel a warmth build in my abdomen, but that quickly subsided as I brought my attention back.

While I was pulling the shirt on over her head, she began to thrash out at me. I thought she was awake at first, but her eyes were closed and she was mumbling things I didn't recognize. She called for her husband once, fearful and shaking. A tear streamed down her cheek as she mumbled something about not wanting to be here and her son. My chest ached from holding back guilty tears. I suddenly regretted ever being given the assignment or ever deciding to kidnap her instead of slitting her throat peacefully.

As she calmly fell back to sleep, dressed and wounds redressed, I let the regret come and tears fall.

...

When he came back from the store after our short breakfast, it was one in the afternoon. Bulma was asleep peacefully upstairs, probably would still be asleep at two, maybe even three. But, as I was reminded by Arturo when he returned, at two she would be gone. She might be strapped to a chair with five teeth missing at three.

Arturo stretched his arms back, several pops sounding from his joints. "Thanks for redressing her wounds. Throw away a used condom or should I wipe the bathroom down-"

"It didn't affect me. Undressing her, I mean." An old paperback was in my hands as I laid on the couch, wanting to forget about whatever nightmare she had about thirty minutes ago.

"Look at the gay man!" Arturo laughed. "I'm playing with you. Good control. I'll be honest, I would've been a bit weirded out if I found a used condom in my trash bin."

I nodded. The book wasn't very great in terms of description. _Her hair flew back with the wind. Her lips smiled. Her voice carried over the air. I love you, she said, but her voice was carried by the wind to me where I stood on the pier. Tears stung at my eyes as she departed on the ship-_

Why not spice it up with words to make a heart sing and feel? _Her golden hair flew in the wind as gently as an angel's wings. Her red lips teased a smile. Her serene and musical voice that enchants all carried over the salty, calm breeze. I love you, she seemed to sing softly, but the wind magnified it to be as strong as an opera declaring love for only me who stood on the rickety pier where lovers stood on moonlit nights. Briny tears made their way down my cheeks and danced with the wind, shining with the setting sun. My dearest angel, the one that made my heart sing and my hands craved, left on the pristine ship meant only for a princess._ That was how you write a book.

I sighed. I closed the book, a foreign melancholic feeling in my chest. Selene, her own golden hair and her strict attitude that made me smile when I broke it with a hug, was in my head. Her rare smile that made her brown eyes behind glasses smile along. My heart seemed to want to will her to me. She would spin out those words for a romance novel as easy as it was a seamstress to sew a button. My beautiful author who left me because of my ridiculous and selfish decision. But those words made me think of her, the good side of her I cherished for the better of ten years, not the one that threw her wedding ring at me and shattered a mirror-

A tap on my head broke my spell.

Arturo was balanced on the balls of his feet in front of where I laid on the couch, his arms resting on his knees. A sympathetic smile on his lips. "You have a depressed look, D-Money. What are you thinking about?"

"Just the past. And Bulma." I sat up, but he didn't move.

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, Christ, my lord and savior. You've fallen in love with her."

I laughed; it was a genuine, full laugh. Even if I'd only felt upset for about an hour, it felt foreign but good. He smiled. "No, I'm not in love with her. But I feel bad for her. I regret bringing her here. And I don't want her to suffer at the hands of Dilion."

"That makes two of us." He placed either hand on each knee, standing. "So. What are we going to do about it?"

I blinked. "Why do you not want to give her up?"

"I told you. I don't believe in unfair and unreasonable punishment. Even if they do have a reason, I don't want her to suffer. She has a family."

"That didn't stop you from other victims."

"They had a reason to be terminated. They were bad people. To each his own poison." He paused. "But I'm more concerned about you. Why do you want to help her? You've had a major change of heart - going from hating her more than a liberalist hates the government to wanting to save her life. You wanted to kill her. But throughout this whole adventure of ours, you've been passive."

I sat up, crossing a leg over the other. "I'm not sure. I said that I didn't want her to suffer and all, true. But as for the real backing reason in my change of view might be..." I paused. I didn't really know. It was odd having to explain why you've changed when you didn't even know. It was like a gifted prodigy who just knew how to play piano explaining how he managed to play Mozart. "...might be that I've realized she's not the horrible, uncaring woman I thought she'd be. I thought she didn't care for anyone other than herself and maybe her family. But she was having what seemed a nightmare and she wanted her family."

"And what about your grudge over your parents at her?" His eye had the look as if he was seeing through me, sifting through memories and any thoughts I might have ever had, cataloging me. I dropped my eyes to the side, observing the couch.

"I don't know about that yet. But I know it isn't as bad as before." I looked up at him again. He was smiling.

"You always were a pushover." He sat down next to me on the couch, looking out the front window. It was a large half-circle filtering in light and spilling it on the rug. It made the afternoon feel as if there was more than less than half an hour left to figure out how to keep Bulma away.

"We could move back to Japan, you know." I glanced at him. "That'd keep him away." I reached into the left breast pocket of my jacket, shaking out a cigarette and a lighter. "Do you mind?"

"No," Arturo said. "I used to smoke cigars and cigarettes myself."

"Not now?"

"No." He flicked his ponytail over his shoulder. "And to answer your suggestion, that wouldn't work. They're bigger than us. And what do you do when you're a big syndicate?" He waited for me to light the cigarette before looking at me expectantly.

"Expand." I breathed in the fumes, exhaling and watching the blue smoke snake around. They were killing me, but they were almost graceful in a way to watch.

"Yep." He folded his hands behind his head, sighing with a smile. "So...in a way, we're stuck."

"The States wasn't exactly my number one choice. If I knew I was going to be stuck, I would've chosen California." Arturo laughed.

"No, warm places are horrible. You remember I'm Russian, don't you?"

I nodded, sucking on the cigarette once more. "But you've lived out of Russia for a long time. A majority of your accent's gone. Maybe you've learned to like warmer places instead of being used to the cold?"

"No, I still favor the cold." A comfortable silence passed through us. After a while, a line of birdsong broke it.

"What if we kill Dilion when he comes to collect her?"

Arturo seemed to regard this option with a fair amount of seriousness. A full minute passed before he replied. "No. He's a fairly big guy in his organization. He's probably got a wire or camera." He made eye contact with me briefly. "Anything we would do in this situation, they would do."

"Like the Veronica Compact?" Arturo's face darkened. After I thought he would give daggers at me through his lone eye, he kept his eye trained on the bird that had landed on a tree outside. Even if he had no neighborhood or families to watch, the blank landscape was beautifully calming with a natural presence. Several minutes passed with both of us observing the landscape. Then he broke it.

"Yes. Like the Veronica Compact."

"I'm sorry for bringing it up-"

"It's fine. I need to get over it. I fucked up, that's all. I've learned from it." He sighed. He placed his hands back down to his thighs. "I do miss her, though."

"You tried your best. There was no way we could have known they planned to-"

"But I should have checked." I watched as he massaged his temple, hunched forward, eye trained on the carpet. "I should have taken precautions. I thought about getting her back, thinking I would have a chance to love a woman. What might happen once she was out." He went silent.

"That's natural," I said, though careful. Any wrong word could be like falling through ice and making him either stop talking about it or yelling. "It's not your fault."

"But she looked...she looked like she wanted to help so bad. She never had that look. She-"

A shout upstairs cut off the conversation. I looked at Arturo, willing for eye contact. He didn't relinquish it. I got up, taking another puff on the cigarette. I went toward the stairs, going up them. The look of Arturo's melancholic stare at the floor was stuck in my head. Was he depressed over it? He'd had an okay life up until now, but something like that would crush any man, no matter how well off they were. The sound of something hitting the floor made my body jerk in alarm and break my thoughts. Seizure? Heart attack? Sickness? No, the logical part of my brain said. Just check on her.

I slowly opened the door, only a crack. Bulma was gone from her bed. The sheets were sliding off the bed. Everything else was in fact, however. Nothing broken, no blood...but still no Bulma.

Now how much would it suck if we lost her again? I thought. I opened it a little wider, seeing the window was closed. A butterfly perched on the windowsill. Still no Bulma.

I took out one knife. If she planned to make a stand here, I wouldn't kill her. I would try not to cut her. I took a step forward, paused, put the knife away. She'd already lost enough blood. I couldn't afford to have her lose even more by an accidental prick. I prodded the door open with the toe of my shoe, seeing it open slowly. No Bulma.

I stepped forward, glanced behind the door, and proceeded. Her room came with its own bathroom, but the light was off and there was no sign of life in there. My best bet was on the other side of the bed where the sheets slanted off to.

I leaned forward to check, and voilà, there she was. Unconscious or asleep, didn't matter. She was alive and in my sight. I realized that I was biting lightly down on the cigarette in my mouth and ignored it. There was no use in stopping it - I would go right back to it.

I opened my mouth to ask if she was alright, then closed it. Some part of me wanted to stay quiet. Maybe it was the surreal feel of the golden sun on the white sheets she was wrapped up in, making it seem like a murder discovered on the same day.

The sheets shook. One foot poked out from the edge of the sheet. The outline of an arm tugged the sheet around her. I took the cigarette out and placed it on the dresser, careful to angle it away from the wood and not to put it out - I was running low on cigarettes, and I had a feeling that I wouldn't have much an opportunity to buy a pack. As I set it down, it occurred to me how badly I was stalling. She's not dead, so why am I unnerved?

The answer mewled at me from the back of my mind, but I hated the answer too much to recognize it. It was ignored and sent to the back.

I silently counted down from ten, turning back to the sheet-wrapped Bulma Briefs. Counting down made me think back to junior year, counting down to something I wanted to do, but I didn't want to do at the same time. Counting down to cut off my ties to the world.

That thought made me stop. My brain was scolding me with high notes of distaste. I only had so much time before Dilion came. And here I was, stalling more than a 50 year old car that had a corroded engine. No countdown this time. No mental prep. Just grab her. I bent down, kneeling next to her.

And I picked her up.

Except the moment I did, she shot forward like a bullet, her blue eyes wide open and a deeper blue than usual. As if on cue, a fact I'd read somewhere came forward and occupied my thought in one-fifth of a second: blue eyes turned darker when crying.

Then pain registered in mine nervous system. A hollow sound resulted as both our heads collided, hard enough to send us both sprawling onto the floor. A few black spots flew about my vision, but quickly dissipated. I held a hand to my forehead, hearing a loud wince.

"What the FUCK?!" Yes, Bulma was conscious. Great. Cursing was just exactly what I wanted to hear. "What is your skull MADE out of?! Did you lose a chunk of that brain in your drunk driving accident too?"

"No," I mumbled. "Are you alright?"

"Am I alright? FUCK NO! I think I felt my skull CRACK OPEN!" I rolled my eyes as she rubbed her forehead in front of me. A small tear pricked at the corner of her eye from the pain.

"You didn't crack your skull. It would've made a loud crack instead of a hollow clock."

"Clock?" she snapped.

"Yes...? As in when your fist clocks something?" She stared at me with dissatisfaction. Silence went through until I got up and retrieved my cigarette. It was burning low. I took a large drag of it then let it out. I went to the dresser and opened the third dresser, seeing an ashtray. I pressed the stub out on the ceramic, then tossed it into the wastebasket. The ashtray remained on the dresser.

I turned back to her, watching her rub her eyes. "Why were you on the floor instead of the bed, anyway?" I asked. Bulma adopted a glaring but upset look.

"Nightmare," she said meekly. "Now can I please have an ice pack?"

"What was the nightmare about?" I asked, deciding to get the pack afterwards. I took note on how she still had that pale complexion, the blood loss still imminent. At this rate, she would faint easily from any number of exertions. Yet she still held herself high with the tongue of a snake.

"None of your business." She crossed her arms. The defiant feel was lost with her still sitting on the floor, me looking down at her.

"How are your stitches holding up?" I asked in an attempt to refresh the conversation.

"How's your cut holding up?" She inquired back. I touched the bandage on my neck, an uncomfortable swallow resulting involuntarily.

"I'm going to assume you don't want to talk."

She shook her head. "I don't." I nodded.

"I'll leave you be. But get some rest, alright?" She did not speak an answer or indicate a nod, but she carefully got up as to not upset the stitching. She sat on the bed.

She sighed. "I do want to go home. If you've nothing to do with me, let me go. You've got the money." She gestured around her to supply her reason. "Why keep me anymore when you have no gain?"

"We're not trying to keep you," I replied. "Things are...complicated," I said out of habit.

"Are you always so vague when you're stressed?"

"I'm not stressed," I replied. "Just...worried. Um...how about that ice pack, yes?" I pulled a smile, but she only stared.

"Fine...and be quick. It's throbbing." I nodded and left the room. The butterfly was gone.

...

I stepped heavily down the stairs, my body exhausted for a reason I couldn't pin. It occurred to me that I hadn't had great sleep in a while - one night up because of Bulma, the next being slapped awake early in the morning. I sighed. I was already craving tobacco again, but I forced myself to ignore it. Two sharp but light knocks on the wood made me jump mentally and physically out of my tired spell.

Arturo walked across the hall. By glance, it looked as if there was a small ink stain on the right side of his shirt, but a glance was all I could make. He was walking briskly, redoing his hair up in his signature low ponytail.

"Is it Dilion?" All I got in answer was a grunt. I looked ahead and he took a hair tie out of his mouth.

"Yes," he called. "Where is Bulma? Conscious?"

"Pissed off with an ice pack, yes. She was about to take a nap-"

"She needs to be out quicker than that. I don't need her panicking." His hand shot out to a small dresser next to the door that also served as a table with a vase of flowers on it. His fingers locked around something, and I saw it was a small gun. He finished with his hair and checked the magazine, nodded, and tucked it in the waist band of his slacks at the small of his back, his shirt over it. "Knock her out, choke her until she passes out from lack of oxygen, something!" He shouted, opening the door.

I was about to call after him when I saw the picture of strength in front of Arturo, next to him a man oozing mercilessness. I turned back to the stairs, trying to think of the least painful way to get her under.

I froze and ducked into the bathroom just as the imaginary light bulb lit above my head.

...

The lightning crack of a gun's discharge sounded. My arm jerked midway of picking up Bulma's limp body, at least four sleeping pills in her system.

God, if you exist - and some part of me still doesn't believe that, and, to be honest, I won't after this - please do not let her share a bed with Michael Jackson.

Her head laid on my chest, her skin the color of milk - no, paler than that - and cold. Her lips were a very light shade of pink, a large contrast from the red I was accustomed to seeing from her. I couldn't stop thinking about how I was the one that brought her here, I was the one who caused such a dramatic blood loss. She seemed to feel lighter as well, probably due to the fact that she hasn't had an adequate meal since the café when we'd first arrived. Arturo and I were lucky enough to have had a light breakfast, but Bulma had gotten beaten around too much for us to think of her hunger. Scolding myself mentally, I shifted her weight onto my left shoulder, hoping the indention of metal wouldn't hurt her.

I adjusted her ice pack and hit the last step on the stairs, walking briskly. What was I supposed to do with her in this situation? Walk around aimlessly?

Get your ass in gear, Diez, I told myself. Figure it out. What would you do to hide someone from a ruthless syndicate wanting to harm them? Well...even the mental pep talk didn't help. I was at a loss. Then I heard Arturo snarl in pain outside. My grip tightened on Bulma, a murmur resulting from her. I could feel blood leaving my face, taking a paler colour. I was in the middle of the house, and Arturo was outside - that meant it was not much a snarl, but a scream of pain.

I thought about putting Bulma down and going to help Arturo, but thought against it. We didn't know how many people were out there, people who could come in and take her.

But what makes you think you can take on all of those people? My conscience asked, musing.

"No fucking clue," I said, a slight stutter rising from my speech out of panic. We were most likely outnumbered, Arturo was in pain, I can't help him without putting Bulma down, which is something I do not have the ability to do. I began to think that we should just hand her over when Arturo slammed through the window to my left, slamming onto the floor. He landed on his left leg, a sharp and sickening crack sounding, followed by a scream of pain. His small gun flew from his hands under the couch.

"Augustine, what the fuck are you doing?!" He shouted, a hand on his calf. He groaned, blood dripping from his forehead and behind his eye patch. "Do something with her!"

"But if I hide her, someone could come in and-"

"FUCK THAT!" He roared, his eye shooting daggers at me. "We're not letting that happen! Set her down and help me out!" I did so quickly, setting her behind the couch to avoid bullets or knives, whatever came first.

I knelt next to Arturo, seeing that his leg was twisted in a way that made me uncomfortable. "You're not going to be walking well for a while," I said.

"I know that! Get my knives, gun, SOMETHING," he ordered, breathing heavy through the pain. The way he was blinking revealed that he was most likely just holding on. I nodded and sprinted to his room. Small shards of glass crackled under my shoes until I got to the stairs and up to his room, looking through his drawers. I hesitated when I saw a bottle of medication, then tossed it to the side. Whatever it was for, he wouldn't need them at the moment, but something about it made my skin crawl. I told myself just to stop thinking about it, and eventually I did. But not as quickly as I needed to be.

I saw his pack of knives, complete with throwing knives and hand-to-hand combat ones. I quickly returned, letting him equip himself.

"You're going to have to fight outside," he said through gritted teeth.

"There has to be a better way to protect her. We're outnumbered-"

"This is our only option!" He yelled. "Now get out there!" I began to protest when I heard several bullets fired through a silencer outside. One flew through the window, but outside most of the bullets resulted in shouts of pain. Friendly fire, I thought with a chill.

Arturo nodded at me and I made my way outside. I glanced back at him and saw that he was beginning to slump over from the amount of extreme pain. I exhaled and forced myself over the crunching glass and out the door. It was complete havoc outside.

Next to the road was a black Corvette with a red stripe down the middle, engine still running. Multiple bodies either dead or unconscious littered the lawn, not one without a mark of blood. Multiple bodies had a knife in the dead center of their forehead, others with knives resting in sheaths of their chests. Discarded guns originally owned by the bodies lay in the grass, a couple of knives that I could bet were Arturo's in the mix. A bullet whizzed past my head, close enough to whistle through my white hair. My eyes locked on the gunman with the intent to kill, then froze.

"What are YOU doing here?!" I exclaimed, relief and surprise flooding through me. There stood the man I'd known since fourth grade, his black hair stuck to his face from sweat and his icy blue eyes piercing. He held a gun equipped with a silencer, most likely the one that was firing the bullets I assumed were friendly fire. His shirt had small spots of blood, most likely from others instead of himself.

"Augustine?!" Desmond said with the same amount of shock. "Oh fuck, I just SHOT at you. Sorry." A man from behind him bolted up with the agility of a tiger, slamming the butt of his pistol down on Desmond's temple, but not as hard as he'd wanted. Desmond slammed his arm against the man's shoulder. The stranger kicked Desmond as he turned, making him hit the grass.

"What are you doing?" A female voice called. I turned and saw she was attempting to take on a different person, a friend of Desmond's or a traitor. She fired a bullet into their head and stared at Desmond's attacker. "TOM!" She shouted.

"What?!" The man named Tom shouted from the grass where Desmond had flipped him, attempting to get his gun aimed anywhere on Desmond's body.

"Quit fooling around with him!" Her hair was red, long and pulled up into a high ponytail with red turning to yellow in the middle, the yellow turning to pink at the tips. Eccentric hair, I thought. Then I flipped a knife out of my left pocket, throwing it straight to her throat.

She locked eyes with me last second, throwing up the last weapon I expected in this fight. My eyes widened with both shock and slight anxiety. She was wielding a katana.

"This is not the Walking Dead, lady!" Desmond shouted, burying a bullet in Tom's leg finally with some large amount of luck. Tom roared in pain, but didn't falter in trying to get a bullet in the man's chest.

I started to go to help Desmond, but froze when I saw Katana Woman bolting towards me. She was on me before I thought she would, my defense put up too late. I hit the grass, seeing her katana change to a smaller dagger. I started to speak, but stopped when she forced her dagger down, hard.

I kicked her off, taking the dagger out of my left arm. Either she didn't know metal didn't feel pain or that I had a prosthetic, because she looked a little freaked out as I threw her dagger in the grass, kicking it away. She began to look around for the knife I had thrown, but I was upon her before she could find it.

The blade dragged across her neck, blood making a heavy trail down the left side of her neck down to the grass. I slight frown tugged at the corner of my lips, but I was interrupted by a gun shot behind me. I stood, unable to check for a pulse - but then again, her neck was slit now. She would bleed out immediately.

"Where is Dilion?" I murmured, looking around as I made my way to Desmond and Tom. "He's got to be somewhere nearby, watching this..."

"FUCK!" The shout was Desmond's, Tom laughing almost hysterically.

"Finally, you weird-eyed fuck!" Blood stained the front lower part of Desmond's shirt, the white tainted with the crimson. "Finally fuckin' shot you! How's it feel?!"

Desmond fired a shot into his head, blood spurting with bits of brain and skin blowing off. A myriad of blood and gore joined the crimson mess on his shirt that could only be described as a piece of the wardrobe of a murderer. He looked away, not queasy at the sight, but not comfortable with it. A hand was over his wound, his breathing heavy. It made me think of Arturo - did he have any bullets in him? How many cuts? I promised myself to check as soon as I was inside. For now, Desmond would bleed out if we didn't get in the large house.

"I don't know if the bullet exited," Desmond murmured. I glanced at his back, seeing there was no hole.

"No," I said painfully. That meant there was going to be much more pain for him. But it had to get out. Desmond nodded. He knew the procedure of bullets, though his nod was not without a disappointed grimace.

"Okay. We gotta get inside. Whoever sent these fuckers are probably not happy." I nodded and together we walked past the multitude of bodies, blood staining the bright green in the afternoon sun.

...

"Gentle, GENTLE!" His back arched as he gripped the bed, in the throes of pain. "I regret it! I should have NEVER asked you to do this!" He shouted.

"I'm not a certified doctor," I said calmly, seeing Arturo force Desmond's chest down for me. The gunman ran a hand through his onyx hair, most likely on the verge of tears.

"If I did this, it would've taken TWO FUCKING SECONDS!"

"Who's the idiot who wasn't watching the gun?" I countered. "And the bullet is in pretty deep. It's hard to get to."

"You aren't even at the BULLET YET?!" His voice had a desperate ring to it. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"Stop cursing," I scolded. "Calm down. You're worse than me with pain-"

"Do YOU have a bullet in you?! Didn't fucking THINK SO!" He started to sit up to flip me the bird, but Arturo practically smacked him down. Finally seeing the bullet, I maneuvered the tweezers and fished it out of his flesh with a roar of pain from Desmond.

"It would've been easier if we just dug through your back," I said. "It was almost sitting next to the skin." I tossed the blood-covered bullet in the waste basket. Desmond slowly regained his normal breathing, his hands at his temples and massaging them.

"Never, ever again. Never. Neverrr," he slurred through pain. "I will never trust you. And I will never not do anything medical to myself without any morphine. That was fucking ridiculous."

"Get over it," I stated. "You have to set his leg. He's in horrible pain, but do you see him bitching?" Desmond stared at my use of profanity with shock. He shook his head. "Then please let us bandage it and you'll get some painkillers."

"Isn't it kind of weird they're not sending anyone else?" Arturo said as if he hadn't heard any of our exchange. I nodded in response, propping Desmond up. His tan skin was warm, but not warm enough for fever. It would've been problematic if infection had set in that fast and that dramatically. I took note that he was still toned, but not enough to be called built with a small hint of jealousy. I was about the same level of toned, but I didn't have the tan skin that made it look more attractive. I pushed it away. It didn't matter anyway.

Arturo inspected Desmond curiosity. "Aren't you a prude? Shouldn't you be freaking out over being shirtless?"

Desmond glared at the assassin. "Shut up. I was in pain. I didn't really notice...until now. When can I have my shirt back?"

"You studied in medicine, idiot," I said, unpacking a roll of ace bandages and the material that goes underneath it, ignoring his second question. "You know it has to be disinfected and dressed. I looked up to see the colour draining incredibly fast from his face.

"That's going to fucking sting." I nodded. "And...You have to rub it in really good..." Another nod.. "And...it has to be stitched...and...oh fuck, there's no morphine." One more nod. He began to seem faint. "Oh Jesus fucking crispies."

...

Desmond pulled on a fresh shirt, the white gauze disappearing under the button-up white shirt Arturo allowed him to borrow. "You know, I don't really think you guys learned the penalty of wearing white. I just got shot, and that left a pretty bad stain in it. Just sayin'."

"And?" Arturo said. "If you get shot or stabbed, it also leaves a hole. And I am not going to sew or pay to have it sewed when I have tons of button-ups in my closet for work. I could care less if you keep it." That closed the discussion.

The room we were in had the faint set of blood and disinfecting alcohol, but none of us really minded. Bulma was in a chair that was dragged up, a comfy one that was originally in the living room. She was slowly regaining color, but not by much. The silence slowly leaked to the attention of Arturo's leg, still bent oddly in shape.

"Okay...since you're certified - a license but not practicing - in medical fields, you can set his leg correctly, right? To where he won't have a limp?" I asked.

Desmond glanced to where Arturo was patiently sitting next to the bed on the floor. Originally he was on the bed to help hold the gunman down, but he'd moved. "Yeah...but it's going to hurt like a bitch."

"Language," I said absently, and neither of the two replied. Desmond approached Arturo, kneeling, but winced. Stitches were put in, but they were recent and raw, added points for lack of painkillers and morphine. He mouthed his favorite word, and I was inclined to inform him of his language, but refrained knowing he would brush it aside.

Arturo seemed calm, but the breathing that raised and lowered his chest was not at all calm. Desmond's eyes flickered to Arturo's, then down to his leg. He gently put his hands on the side of his leg. Just that much made Arturo groan. "Have you ever had to have a limb set?" He asked calmly.

Arturo nodded. "Yes...but that doesn't mean I'll ever like it." He gave a nervous laugh. "Let this be quick, okay?"

"I'll try my best, buddy. Your bone got popped out of place from your knee, and that bone is fractured. So...this is going to hurt because one, setting is always really fuckin' painful; two, that bone is fractured, and I'm putting a lot of pressure on it that may further break it; and finally, three, you have nothing to numb the pain. Want some bark to bite on, old buddy?"

"How about something other than bark? I don't want to accidentally bite off my tongue from pain." He glanced to me and I nodded through slight laughter. "What?"

"Nothing...just imagining you freaking out over your tongue. Anyway, I think the best you're going to get is a washcloth." Arturo nodded and I left to get it. As I walked back, I heard a shout of pain.

"-hurt a lot," I heard. It was Desmond speaking.

"What was that?" I asked.

"Well, I put a small bit of pressure next to his kneecap, and...that supposedly hurt like hell. This is going to get really, really bad. Try not to black out from pain, buddy." Desmond smiled weakly. Arturo did not smile back. I handed him the washcloth. It was barely in his mouth before Desmond snapped the bone into place. Arturo was awake for only three seconds before going under.

...

The sun dipped below the horizon with no other people coming to invade Arturo's place. Desmond and I had pondered and discussed reasons why that might have been for a whole before just forgetting it altogether. Arturo and Bulma were both asleep in the upstairs guest room, the same one Bulma had slept in before she fell over the bed in a bundle of sheets and interrupted the conversation Arturo and I had.

While they slept, Desmond and I took responsibility of attempting to make the yard look at least a little tidy. Desmond's stitches came out only once when he'd fallen over a body outside, collecting knives and guns to lock them up, but they were quickly replaced.

"The bodies?" Desmond posed, looking out the window, the same one Arturo had been flung through. A light breeze from outside breathed in. Both of us were in the living room, finished from sweeping up the glass from the window. The area had suddenly gotten as cold as winter, as if the amount of death on the lawn outside brought along the cold winter for us to think about what we'd done. We'd lit the fire to counter that cold, and the fire flickered in Desmond's eyes in a way that chilled me, in a way the wind could not. It had been eerily silent between the both of us for a while now, as if thoughts were threatening to swallow us up without a word exchanged to one another.

"Not sure," I replied. "Arturo's decision. It's his property."

Desmond's eyes were trained on the orange flames licking up the wood now. His hands were wrapped around a bright red Thermos, suffocating the shining metal. His face had adopted a stressed, tense look of a doctor prompting life support to a family member. "I'm worried about the guy. I really am." His voice had dropped to a thick but smooth level, like heavy silk. That tone was the tone of a man who'd rehearsed the words he was speaking in his head numerous times. "He has that same...spaced out but still there look in his eyes, like-" he hesitated, took a breath, then resumed, "-like the look you had in junior year before you tried suicide."

A light stab sounded in my chest, but not a foreign one. The flash of a bottle of pills danced behind my eyes, the small dots of what looked like gray ink on his white shirt accompanying. Silence covered and smothered us in a blanket of dark satin, beautiful but unwanted. "He's been like this for a while. Ever since the-"

"-Veronica Compact," he finished. "I've been told a bit about it. Some girl who...I think killed herself?"

I shook my head. "No...she was a woman that Arturo ended up falling in love with. He never got the courage to court her, but it was obvious she loved him back."

"Ah, damn, this is a sad love story."

I nodded. "About a week or so before he planned to actually tell her, she just...disappeared. She was gone for over a year. Arturo grew desperate while searching for her, causing the biggest amount of assignments in our branch to be created. He wanted anyone who he thought knew her dead or questioned."

"Did he seriously like her THAT much? Or is he one of those guys who, once they fall in love, they're crazy about them?"

"No. They were just...really compatible. One of those couples that would still love each other until they're old and frail." My gaze dropped to the carpet, an unreasoned sadness hugging at my chest. "This sounds like one of those cliché love stories, doesn't it?"

Desmond laughed, though it was forced and choked. "Yeah...what happened to her?" His ghostly blue eyes were trained on me now. I didn't have to look up to know - his eyes were easy to feel.

"Arturo finally found her, captured by an opposing syndicate - the one who sent those agents. That syndicate is famous in our branch because Arturo got extremely pissed at them. He had already had beef with them, but this was like butchering your family to him."

"What syndicate?" He asked. I sighed and shook my head.

"I can't say. Arturo genuinely believes that if you say the name, bad luck comes. That's how much he hates this syndicate. And the syndicate doesn't broadcast their name, and Arturo likes it that way. Just like we don't tell ours that often." Desmond nodded, but it was a nod that showed he disliked the answer, yet he gestured for me to go on. "Anyway, Arturo went alone to their big estate. He was paranoid that they'd tortured or traumatized her...and they were right. He found her beaten for reasons he doesn't know or won't share. No one knows why she was there - but what we do know is that Arturo went on a massive killing spree in that estate. He almost got to the CEO, but he was gunned down. Then the CEO decided to mess with Arturo by saying they would hand her over."

"Oh, bullshit."

"Pretty much." I smiled bitterly. "They let Arturo leave with several bullets in his system. People in my branch like to gossip that he'd walked out confidently as if he didn't feel any of the bullets because he's had so much adrenaline in his system.

"While Arturo recovered, Veronica was released to her own nice house. The syndicate kept a close eye on her for a while, sort of waiting for Arturo to recover. When he did, about two weeks later, he was so compelled to find her that he didn't think about the syndicate's reason for letting her go. He wasn't given an address or anything, so it would be difficult to search for her, and he wanted her found. He was halfway out the door before a friend of mine forced him back by his collar. That friend got a hard punch to the jaw."

"Jeez...love is freakin' dope."

"Don't talk like that," I said. "...But yes, I suppose it is a little overpowering. Anyway...we finally made him get at least a few people to come with him, even though he insisted this was personal business of his."

"Did you get to go?" Desmond tapped the red Thermos. I glanced at his eyes, seeing that previously tense look, just restrained to his ice blue eyes that looked like they glowed in the dark. His face was stressed, but his voice was level and conversational.

"No. Well...I was late. Really late. I was at an assignment...when I'd arrived, I still had a blood stain in my jacket." I smiled with a small bit of humor, but not much. "Anyway...when they arrived, the whole block was silent. Dead quiet. No birdsong, no kids playing in the warm spring. It was as if the syndicate itself had bribed every living thing to be still. They drove down the street, wondering which one she stayed at, and Arturo suddenly shouted at Fred - the driver, also a friend of mine - to stop in front of a small blue house."

"He just knew she was there?" He took a sip from his Thermos. He wouldn't tell me what was inside when he was filling it, but I guessed it was some sort of alcohol from the jolt he'd had. He never handled alcohol well; a violent drunk never is. I made a mental note to tell him to tone down.

"I suppose. I'm not too sure." I crossed my arms, zipping up my jacket as the wind started to nip at me. "As if on cue, the door opened and there she was. Arturo was halfway out of the car, ignoring the precautions given by his associates. Then that's when I'd arrived. When I pulled up, there were tears in both of their eyes. It was a moment that made you feel hopeful."

"But where the fuck is this syndicate? They didn't just hand her over, right? I mean, I've heard of this syndicate from my branch, or at least I believe I have. And from what I heard, they aren't too keen on giving away what they can gain from. And fucking up an important figure in our own syndicate is kind of a huge gain."

"Be quiet and listen. Arturo had gotten on the lawn before he was shot in the leg from someone we couldn't see. We assume a sniper. Anyway, when he hit the dirt, Veronica had done the thing anyone would do in her place when they see someone they love shot."

Desmond pondered for a moment, a look that made me stop. "This story's about to end, I can feel it." His eyes were downcast on the carpet painted with moonlight. He raised the Thermos to his lips, taking a long drink. His hands were shaking gently, the same shake when you're in the snow awhile.

"Obviously everyone that had come with Arturo came out to help him. Fred was shot dead on the spot by the same person who shot Arturo. Through the chest. I managed to only get a bullet in my left arm. Not really effective." I laughed. I didn't pause for any comments from Desmond. "All of it happened so quickly. The firing of bullets just as Veronica stepped on the third square of the house's walkway. No one in the neighborhood came out of their houses. If was as if everyone had left because the syndicate wanted to put on a play in their neighborhood."

"Look at you, pulling out your similes," Desmond murmured. "A grim one at that...what about Arturo and Veronica?"

"...Well..." A memory of a loud bang, a discharge louder than any of the ones before. In the blur of movement I was doing to dodge a bullet, a spray of crimson I'd grown so accustomed was nothing other than blood. The moment when Arturo-

"Hey." Desmond was locking eyes with me once more, his firelight blue-orange scarier than ever. "What's up?"

"Nothing," I said simply.

"You looked like you were thinking about something unpleasant."

"That's true. The next part is unpleasant..." I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. "I don't remember the exact visual of it, as I was in the midst of dodging the onslaught of bullets and trying to find the sniper, but..." I hesitated. How did a person portray a moment in someone else's life when it just crumbled? When a person you love is killed before you in your moment of hope...how do you describe that when you just witnessed it second-hand?

"...but I heard a very close fire of a gun. It was deafening, even if I've heard my share of firearms. All of us stopped, even the sniper. That was when I saw the spray of blood. It was a clean shot through the head, no chance of just paralyzing her. It was pretty gruesome, seeing her arms outstretched to Arturo to help him, and then bam, you're shot through the head."

"Yeah...that does sound like it would suck...I'm pretty sure Arturo was trashed, huh?" His eyes were downcast to the fire once more. The wind blowing through the window grew harsher. I glanced in the direction of the stairs, afraid I'd see Arturo would be standing there, hand on the banister and smiling. Yes, I was wrecked, he'd say. Oh fuck, we didn't mean any harm, we'd say. So on, so on, movie cliché.

I turned back to the fire, a chill sweeping through my body. "Yes, he was a wreck. When she fell to the ground, he got up and charged the guy that shot Veronica despite the bullet in his leg. Dripped the gun halfway through his sprint. Slit his throat and let him bleed out. Then..."

I sighed. Desmond rose a brow. "Then he lashed out at everyone?"

"No. He...just crumbled. He leaned against the door frame, just...shoulders shaking like he was having a seizure and his knife next him. The only sound was a knife being thrown to end the sniper once he was spotted in the silence. It was an emotional spectacle, seeing Arturo slump to the ground after everything he'd been known for. He just...doesn't cry."

"Did he...hug Veronica or anything?"

"No. He was broken, but not irrational," I was about to say 'yet', but refrained from it, "and all he did was cry. We all went over to Arturo, and one of the four he brought along carried Veronica away. He's not a hugger, but the second I put a hand on his shoulder as I sat next to him, he pulled me into a bear hug. He had slipped into Russian, cursing, speaking things I didn't understand, but also saying "why Veronica?" through tears." I felt a small lump in my throat at the memory, the memory of how hard he gripped me to him, how badly he was shaking, how cold he was.

"How do you know he was saying that? You don't know Russian. Did he tell you?"

"I looked it up. He never brought up that vulnerable moment, nor does he ever bring up the Veronica Compact. It's only if someone else brings it up...and even then, he's very short about it."

"How long ago was this?" Desmond rubbed his left eye with the heel of his hand. I looked over and saw the piercing blue was laced with mist.

"About five years into my employment, so...about 12 years ago...why are you crying?"

"I'm not!" he insisted. He set his Thermos on the coffee table, a tear dripping down his cheek from the eye he hadn't wiped. "I...I don't know! I'm allergic to gin and vodka!"

"That's what's in the Thermos?" I laughed. "Gin and vodka?"

"That's all he had, okay?!" He leaned over the arm of the couch and wiped his eyes. "And...I'm crying because I feel bad for the dude." He sniffed, composing himself as he spoke. "It sounds so fictional. Like...something you'd read in some fanfiction," he murmured.

"Well...those bizarre things happen to people in our careers." I fished my carton of cigarettes out of the breast pocket of the jacket, taking one out and replacing the carton for a lighter, lit it, replaced it. Only one cigarette left after this. Silence floated with the wind, smothering the conversation.

"Why is he not over it even a little?" Desmond asked, removing the hold of quiet. "I mean...I get that it's a traumatic experience, but..."

"He's never loved someone before." I took a drag of the cigarette, enjoying the nicotine after several hours without it. "And when you love someone as deeply as he loved her, they haunt your mind. Especially when you know you could have saved them."

"...I don't think that love is easy to come by." Desmond sniffed again, but the tears were drying up. He took a large drink of his gin and vodka.

"Maybe someday you will." I shrugged. "No one knows." Desmond nodded and only the light chirping of crickets.

"They can come back anytime, you know," Desmond commented. "That syndicate."

"Cibola has a lot of people...enough to dispatch at least twenty and be comfortable. Not a dent in numbers. I'm surprised they haven't hit us again while we're recovering."

"You never know. It could always happen...Cibola? Is that the syndicate's name?" I nodded. "This wind is getting real fucking annoying."

"If you'd like to tape a blanket over it, be my guest."

Desmond shook his head. "No. Waste of ti-"

Glass shattered and a scream arose from upstairs. It was Bulma. I smothered my cigarette into an ashtray.

Both of us looked at each other and stood, sprinting upstairs. The scream was growing fainter, despite the fact that we were getting closer. Desmond pulled the door open, taking out his gun and pressing down on the trigger.

The room was empty other than Arturo. The glass was broken in the window where I'd seen the butterfly. "Oh shit."

"She's gone," I murmured. The bed was empty and bare, the sheets thrown on the floor. Arturo still lay asleep on the chair we'd dragged up for him to sleep on. I went to the window, only seeing the daunting night and open field. The same cold breeze began flying into the window. Soon this house would be full of holes, that wind of death filling it with the sweet smell of grass. "They took her."

Desmond went silent.


End file.
